A  SERIES  OF  ESSAYS 


BY 


Arthur  Schopenhauer. 


TRANSLATED    BY 


T.  Bailey  Saundkrs,  M.  A. 


Vitam  impendere  vero. — Juvenal. 


NEW  YORK, 

PETER  ECKLER,  PUBLISHER, 
No.  35  Fulton  Street. 


V 


THE  WISDOM  OF  LIFE. 


Xe  bonJieur  n'est  pas  ehoae  aiate :  ilett  tri»- 
difflcile  de  le  Mwer  en  nou*,  el  impoaaUiie 
de  le  tnmver  aiUeurs. 

OHAMTOBT. 


V 


/v. 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE. 

OF  Schopenhauer — as  o^  many  another  writer — it  may 
be  said  that  he  has  been  ijnisunderstood  and  depreciated 
just  in  the  degree  in  which  he  i^  thought  to  be  new ;  and  that, 
in  treating  of  the  Conduct  of  Life,  he  is,  in  reahty,  valuable 
only  in  so  far  as  he  brings  old  truths  to  remembrance.  His 
name  used  to  arouse,  and  in  certain  quarters  still  arouses,  a 
vague  sense  of  alarm  ;  as  though  he  had  come  to  subvert  all 
the  rules  of  right  thinking  and  all  the  rules  of  good  conduct, 
rather  than  to  proclaim  once  again  and  give  a  new  meaning  to 
truths  with  which  the  world  has  long  been  familiar.  Of  its 
philosophy  in  its  more  technical  aspects,  as  matter  upon  which 
enough,  perhaps,  has  oeen  written,  no  account  need  be  taken 
here,  except  as  it  affects  the  form  in  which  he  embodies  these 
truths  or  supplies  the  fresh  light  in  which  he  sees  them.  For 
whatever  claims  to  originality  his  metaphysical  theory  may 
possess,  the  chief  interest  to  be  found  in  his  views  of  life  is  an 
affair  of  form  rather  than  of  substance  ;  and  he  stands  in  a 
sphere  of  his  own,  not  because  he  sets  new  problems  or  opens 
up  undiscovered  truths,  but  in  the  manner  in  which  he  ap- 
proaches what  has  been  already  revealed. 

He  is  not  on  that  account  less  important ;  for  the  great  mass 
of  men  at  all  times  requires  to  have  old  truths  imparted  as  if 
they  were  new — formulated,  as  it  were,  directly  for  them  as 
individuals,  and  of  special  application  to  their  own  circum- 
stanances  in  life.  A  discussion  of  human  happiness  and  the 
way  to  obtain  it  is  never  either  unnecessary  or  uncalled  for,  if 
one  looks  to  the  extent  to  which  the  lives  of  most  men  fall 
short  of  even  a  poor  ideal,  or,  again,  to  the  difficulty  of  reach- 
ing any  definite  and  secure  conclusion.  For  to  such  a  mo- 
mentous inquiry  as  this,  the  vast  majority  of  mankind  gives 

(▼) 


vi  TRANSLATOR  S   PREFACE. 

nothing  more  than  a  nominal  consideration,  accepting  the 
current  belief,  whatever  it  may  be,  on  authority,  and  taking  as 
little  thought  of  the  grounds  on  which  it  rests  as  a  man  walking 
takes  of  the  motion  of  the  earth.  But  for  those  who  are  not 
indifferent — for  those  whose  desire  to  fathom  the  mystery  of 
existence  gives  them  the  right  to  be  called  thinking  beings — it 
is  just  here,  in  regard  to  the  conclusion  to  be  reached,  that  a 
difficulty  arises,  a  difficulty  affecting  the  conduct  of  life  :  for 
while  the  great  facts  of  existence  are  alike  for  all,  they  are 
variously  appreciated,  and  conclusions  differ,  chiefly  from  in- 
nate diversity  of  temperament  in  those  who  draw  them.  It  is 
innate  temperament,  acting  on  a  view  of  the  facts  necessarily 
incomplete,  that  has  inspired  so  many  different  teachers.  The 
tendencies  of  a  man's  own  mind — the  Idols  of  the  Cave  before 
which  he  bows — interpret  the  facts  in  accordance  with  his  own 
nature  :  he  elaborates  a  system  containing,  perhaps,  a  grain  of 
truth,  to  which  the  whole  of  life  is  then  made  to  conform  ;  the 
facts  purporting  to  be  the  foundation  of  the  theory,  and  the 
theory  in  its  turn  giving  its  own  color  to  the  facts.  I 

Nor  is  this  error,  the  manipulation  of  facts  to  suit  the  theory, 
avoided  in  the  views  of  life  which  are  presented  by  Schopen- 
hauer. It  is  true  that  he  aimed  especially  at  freeing  himself 
from  the  trammels  of  previous  systems  ;  but  he  was  caught  in 
those  of  his  own.  His  natural  desire  was  to  resist  the  common 
appeal  to  anything  extramundane — anything  outside  or  beyond 
life — as  the  basis  of  either  hope  or  fear.  He  tried  to  look  at 
life  as  it  is  ;  but  the  metaphysical  theory  on  which  his  whole 
philosophy  rests  made  it  necessary  for  him,  as  he  thought,  to 
regard  it  as  an  unmixed  evil.  He  calls  our  present  existence 
an  infinitesimal  moment  between  two  eternities,  the  past  and 
the  future,  a  moment — like  the  life  of  Plato's  ' '  Dwellers  in  the 
Cave," — filled  with  the  pursuit  of  shadows;  where  everything 
is  relative,  phenomenal,  illusory,  and  man  is  bound  in  the 
servitude  of  ignorance,  struggle  and  need,  in  the  endless  round 
of  effort  and  failure.  If  you  confine  yourself,  says  Schopen- 
hauer, only  to  some  of  its  small  details,  life  may  indeed  appear 
to  be  a  comedy,  because  of  the  one  or  two  bright  spots  of 
happy  circumstance  to  be  found  in  it  here  and  there;  but 


TRANSLATOR  S    PREFACE.  VU 

when  you  reach  a  higher  point  of  view  and  a  broader  outlook, 
these  soon  become  invisible,  and  Life,  seen  from  the  distance 
which  brings  out  the  true  proportion  of  all  its  parts,  is  revealed 
as  a  tragedy — a  long  record  of  struggle  and  pain,  with  the 
death  of  the  hero  as  the  final  certainty.  How  then,  he  asks, 
can  a  man  make  the  best  of  his  brief  hour  under  the  hard  con- 
ditions of  his  destiny  ?     What  is  the  true  Wisdom  of  Life  ? 

Schopenhauer  has  no  pre-conceived  divine  plan  to  vindicate  ; 
no  religious  or  moral  enthusiasm  to  give  a  roseate  hue  to  some 
far-off  event,  obliging  us  in  the  end  to  think  that  all  things 
work  together  for  good.  Let  poets  and  theologians  give  play 
to  imagination  1  he,  at  any  rate,  will  profess  no  knowledge 
of  anything  beyond  our  ken.  If  our  existence  does  not  entirely 
fail  of  its  aim,  it  must,  he  says,  be  suffering ;  for  this  is  what 
meets  us  everywhere  in  the  world,  and  it  is  absurd  to  look 
upon  it  as  the  result  of  chance.  Still,  in  the  face  of  all  this 
suffering,  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  uncertainty  of  life 
destroys  its  value  as  an  end  in  itself,  every  man's  natural 
desire  is  to  preserve  his  existence  ;  so  that  life  is  a  blind,  un- 
reasoning force,  hurrying  us  we  know  not  whither.  From  his 
high  metaphysical  standpoint,  Schopenhauer  is  ready  to  admit 
that  there  are  many  things  in  life  which  give  a  short  satisfaction 
and  blind  us  for  the  moment  to  the  realities  of  existence, — 
pleasures  as  they  may  be  called,  in  so  far  as  they  are  a  mode 
of  relief :  but  that  pleasure  is  not  positive  in  its  nature  nor 
anything  more  than  the  negation  of  suffering,  is  prov^ed  by  the 
fact  that,  if  pleasures  come  in  abundance,  pain  soon  returns  in 
the  form  of  satiety  ;  so  that  the  sense  of  illusion  is  all  that  has 
been  gained.  Hence,  the  most  a  man  can  achieve  in  the  way 
of  welfare  is  a  measure  of  relief  from  this  suffering  ;  and  if 
people  were  prudent,  it  is  at  this  they  would  aim,  instead  of 
trying  to  secure  a  happiness  which  always  flies  from  them. 

It  is  a  trite  saying  that  happiness  is  a  delusion,  a  chimaera,  the 
fata  morgana  of  the  heart ;  but  here  is  a  writer  who  will  bring 
our  whole  conduct  into  line  with  that,  as  a  matter  of  practice  ; 
making  pain  the  positive  groundwork  of  life,  and  a  desire  to 
escape  it  the  spur  of  all  effort.  While  most  of  those  who  treat 
of  the  conduct  of  life  come  at  last  to  the  conclusion,  more  or 


vm  translator's  preface. 


less  vaguely  expressed,  that  religion  and  morality  form  a 
positive  source  of  true  happiness,  Schopenhauer  does  not 
professedly  take  this  view  ;  though  it  is  quite  true  that  the 
practical  outcome  of  his  remarks  tends,  as  will  be  seen,  in 
support  of  it ;  with  this  difference,  however — he  does  not  direct 
the  imagination  to  anything  outside  this  present  life  as  making 
it  worth  while  to  live  at  all ;  his  object  is  to  state  the  facts  of 
existence  as  they  immediately  appear,  and  to  draw  conclusions 
as  to  what  a  wise  man  will  do  in  the  face  of  them. 

In  the  practical  outcome  of  Schopenhauer's  ethics — the  end 
and  aim  of  those  maxims  of  conduct  which  he  recommends, 
there  is  nothing  that  is  not  substantially  akin  to  theories  of  life 
which,  in  different  forms,  the  greater  part  of  mankind  is  pre- 
sumed to  hold  in  reverence.  It  is  the  premises  rather  than 
the  conclusion  of  his  argument  which  interest  us  as  something 
new.  The  whole  world,  he  says,  with  all  its  phenomena  of 
change,  growth  and  development,  is  ultimately  the  manifesta- 
tion of  Will —  Wille  und  Vorstellung — a  blind  force  conscious 
of  itself  only  when  it  reaches  the  stage  of  intellect.  And  life  is 
a  constant  self-assertion  of  this  will  ;  a  long  desire  which  is 
never  fulfilled  ;  disillusion  inevitably  following  upon  attainment, 
because  the  will,  the  thing-in-itself — in  philosophical  language, 
the  noumenon — always  remains  as  the  permanent  element  ;  and 
with  this  persistent  exercise  of  its  claim,  it  can  never  be  satis- 
fied. So  life  is  essentially  suffering  ;  and  the  only  remedy  for 
it  is  the  freedom  of  the  intellect  from  the  servitude  imposed  by 
its  master,  the  will. 

The  happiness  a  man  can  attain,  is  thus,  in  Schopenhauer's 
view,  negative  only  ;  but  how  is  it  to  be  acquired  ?  Some 
temporary  relief,  he  says,  may  be  obtained  through  the  medium 
of  Art ;  for  in  the  apprehension  of  Art  we  are  raised  out  of  our 
bondage,  contemplating  objects  of  thought  as  they  are  in 
themselves,  apart  from  their  relations  to  our  own  ephemeral 
existence,  and  free  from  any  taint  of  the  will.  This  contempla- 
tion of  pure  thought  is  destroyed  when  Art  is  degraded  from 
its  lofty  sphere,  and  made  an  instrument  in  the  bondage  of  the 
will.     How  few  of  those  who  feel  that  the  pleasure  of  Art 


:^ 


translator's  preface.  IX 


transcends  all  others  could  give  such  a  striking  explanation  of 
their  feeling ! 

But  the  highest  ethical  duty,  and  consequently  the  supreme 
endeavor  after  happiness,  is  to  withdraw  from  the  struggle  of 
life,  and  so  obtain  release  from  the  misery  which  that  struggle 
imposes  upon  all,  even  upon  those  who  are  for  the  moment 
successful.  For  as  will  is  the  inmost  kernel  of  everything,  so 
it  is  identical  under  all  its  manifestations  ;  and  through  the 
mirror  of  the  world  a  man  may  arrive  at  the  knowledge  of 
himself.  The  recognition  of  the  identity  of  our  own  nature 
with  that  of  others  is  the  beginning  and  foundation  of  all  true 
morality.  For  once  a  man  clearly  perceives  this  solidarity  of 
the  will,  there  is  aroused  in  him  a  feeling  oi  sympathy  which  is 
the  main-spring  of  ethical  conduct.  This  feeling  of  sympathy 
must,  in  any  true  moral  system,  prevent  our  obtaining  success 
at  the  price  of  others'  loss.  Justice,  in  this  theory,  comes  to 
be  a  noble,  enlightened  self-interest ;  it  will  forbid  our  doing 
wrong  to  our  fellowman,  because,  in  injuring  him,  we  are  in- 
juring ourselves — our  own  nature,  which  is  identical  with  his. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  recognition  of  this  identity  of  the  will 
must  lead  to  commiseration — a  feeling  of  sympathy  with  our 
fellow-sufferers — to  acts  of  kindness  and  benevolence,  to  the 
manifestation  of  what  Kant,  in  the  Metaphysic  of  Ethics,  calls 
the  only  absolute  good,  the  good  will.  In  Schopenhauer's 
phraseology,  the  human  will,  in  other  words,  ^P"f,  the  love  of 
life,  is  in  itself  the  root  of  all  evil,  and  goodness  lies  in  renoun- 
cing it.  Theoretically,  his  ethical  doctrine  is  the  extreme  of 
socialism,  in  a  large  sense  ;  a  recognition  of  the  inner  identity, 
and  equal  claims,  of  all  men  with  ourselves  ;  a  recognition 
issuing  in  "yaTj/,  universal  benevolence,  and  a  stifling  of  partic- 
ular desires. 

It  may  come  as  a  surprise  to  those  who  affect  to  hold 
Schopenhauer  in  abhorrence,  without,  perhaps,  really  know- 
ing the  nature  of  his  views,  that,  in  this  theory  of  the  essential 
evil  of  the  human  will — ep"f,  the  common  selfish  idea  of  life — 
he  is  reflecting  and  indeed  probably  borrowing  what  he  de- 


X  TRANSLATOR  S    PREFACE. 

scribes  as  the  fundamental  tenet  of  Christian  theology,  that  (he 
whole  creation  groaneth  and  travaileth  in  pain,^  standing  in 
need  of  redemption.  Though  Schopenhauer  was  no  friend  to 
Christian  theology  in  its  ordinary  tendencies,  he  was  very  much 
in  sympathy  with  some  of  the  doctrines  which  have  been  con- 
nected with  it.  In  his  opinion  the  foremost  truth  which  Chris- 
tianity proclaimed  to  the  world  lay  in  its  recognition  of  pes- 
simism, its  view  that  the  world  was  essentially  corrupt,  and 
that  the  devil  was  its  prince  or  ruler.*  It  would  be  out  of  place 
here  to  inquire  into  the  exact  meaning  of  this  statement,  or  to 
determine  the  precise  form  of  compensation  provided  for  the 
ills  of  life  under  any  scheme  of  doctrine  which  passes  for  Chris- 
tian :  and  even  if  it  were  in  place,  the  task  would  be  an  ex- 
tremely difficult  one  ;  for  probably  no  system  of  belief  has  ever 
undergone,  at  various  periods,  more  radical  changes  than 
Christianity.  But  whatever  prospect  of  happiness  it  may  have 
held  out,  at  an  early  date  of  its  history,  it  soon  came  to  teach 
that  the  necessary  preparation  for  happiness,  as  a  positive 
spiritual  state,  is  renunciation,  resignation,  a  looking  away  from 
external  life  to  the  inner  life  of  the  soul — a  kingdom  not  of  this 
world.  So  far,  at  least,  as  concerns  its  view  of  the  world 
itself,  and  the  main  lesson  and  duty  which  life  teaches,  there  is 
nothing  in  the  theory  of  pessimism  which  does  not  accord  with 
that  religion  which  is  looked  up  to  as  the  guide  of  life  over  a 
great  part  of  the  civilized  world. 

What  Schopenhauer  does  is  to  attempt  a  metaphysieal  ex- 
planation of  the  evil  of  life,  without  any  reference  to  anything 
outside  it.  Philosophy,  he  urges,  should  be  cosmology,  not 
theology;  an  explanation  of  the  world,  not  a  scheme  of  divine 
knowledge  :  it  should  leave  the  gods  alone — to  use  an  ancient 
phrase — and  claim  to  be  left  alone  in  return.  Schopenhauer 
was  not  concerned,  as  the  aposties  and  fathers  of  the  Church 
were  concerned,  to  formulate  a  scheme  by  which  the  ills  of  this 
life  should  be  remedied  in  another — an  appeal  to  the  poor  and 
oppressed,  conveyed  often  in  a  material  form,  as,  for  instance, 
in  the  story  of  Dives  and  Lazarus.  In  his  theory  of  life  as  the 
the  self-assertion  of  will,  he  endeavors  to  account  for  the  sin, 
» Romans  viii.,  22.  « John  xii.,  33. 


"^:4-* '^.  "^15^ "T--  T> -^■C'T  -■--'.■   iBi«pB>i^-.c;.  "^  4"  »!■  'T»  ''lf"»r^-"»T|»J!"' 


translator's  preface.  xi 

misery  and  iniquity  of  the  world,  and  to  point  to  the  way  of 
escape — the  denial  of  the  will  to  live. 

Though  Schopenhauer's  views  of  life  have  this  much   in 
common  with  certain  aspects  of  Christian  doctrine^  they  are  in 
decided  antagonism  with  another  theory  which,  though,  com- 
paratively speaking,  the  birth  of  yesterday,  has  already  been 
dignified  by  the  name  of  a  religion,  and  has,  no  doubt,  a  cer- 
tain number  of  followers.    It  is  the  theory  which  looks  upon 
the  life  of  mankind  as  a  continual  progress  towards  a  state  of 
perfection,  and  humanity  in   its   nobler  tendencies  as   itself 
worthy  of  worship.    To  those  who  embrace  this  theory,  it  will 
seem  that  because  Schopenhauer  does  not  hesitate  to  declare 
the  evil  in  the  life  of  mankind  to  be  far  in  excess  of  the  good, 
and  that,  as  long  as  the  human  will  remains  what  it  is,  there  can 
be  no  radical  change  for  the  better,  he  is  therefore  outside  the 
pale  of  civilization,  an  alien  from  the  commonwealth  of  ordered 
knowledge  and  progress.     But  it  has  yet  to  be  seen  whether 
the  religion  of  humanity  will  fare  better,  as  a  theory  of  conduct 
or  as  a  guide  of  hfe,  than  either  Christianity  or  Buddhism.     If 
any  doctrine  may  be  named  which  has  distinguished  Chris- 
tianity wherever  it  has  been  a  living  force  among  its  adherents, 
it  is  the  doctrine  of  renunciation  ;  the  same  doctrine  which  in 
a  different  shape  and  with  other  surroundings,  forms  the  spirit 
of  Buddhism.     With  those  great  religions  of  the  world  which 
mankind  has  hitherto  professed  to  revere  as  the  most  ennobling 
of  all  influences,  Schopenhauer's  theories,  not  perhaps  in  their 
details,  but  in  the  principle  which  informs  them,  are  in  close 
alliance. 

Renunciation,  according  to  Schopenhauer,  is  the  truest 
wisdom  of  life,  from  the  higher  ethical  standpoint.  His  heroes 
are  the  Christian  ascetics  of  the  Middle  Age,  and  the  followers 
of  Buddha  who  turn  away  from  the  Sansara  to  the  Nirvana. 
But  our  modern  habits  of  thought  are  different.  We  look 
askance  at  the  doctrines,  and  we  have  no  great  enthusiasm  for 
the  heroes.  The  system  which  is  in  vogue  amongst  us  just 
now  objects  to  the  identification  of  nature  with  evil,  and,  in 
fact,  abandons  ethical  dualism  altogether.  And  if  nature  is  not 
evil,  where,  it  will  be  asked,  is  the  necessity  or  the  benefit  of 


xii  translator's  preface. 


renunciation — a  question  which  may  even  come  to  be  generally 
raised,  in  a  not  very  distant  future,  on  behalf  of  some  new 
conception  of  Christianity. 

And  from  another  point  of  view,  let  it  be  frankly  admitted 
that  renunciation  is  incompatible  with  ordinary  practice,  with 
the  rules  of  life  as  we  are  compelled  to  formulate  them  ;  and 
that,  to  the  vast  majority,  the  doctrine  seems  little  but  a 
mockery,  a  hopelessly  unworkable  plan,  inapplicable  to  the 
conditions  under  which  men  have  to  exist. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  is  theoretically  in  sympathy  with 
truths  which  lie  at  the  foundation  of  certain  widely  revered 
systems,  the  world  has  not  yet  accepted  Schopenhauer  for  what 
he  proclaimed  himself  to  be,  a  great  teacher  :  and  probably  for 
the  reason  that  hope  is  not  an  element  in  his  wisdom  of  life, 
and  that  he  attenuates  love  into  something  that  is  not  a  real, 
living  force — a  shadowy  recognition  of  the  identity  of  the  will. 
For  men  are  disinclined  to  welcome  a  theory  which  neither 
flatters  their  present  position  nor  holds  out  any  prospect  of 
better  things  to  come.  Optimism — the  belief  that  in  the  end 
everything  will  be  for  the  best — is  the  natural  creed  of  man- 
kind ;  and  a  writer  who  of  set  purpose  seeks  to  undermine  it 
by  an  appeal  to  facts  is  regarded  as  one  who  tries  to  rob  hu- 
manity of  its  rights.  How  seldom  an  appeal  to  the  facts  within 
our  reach  is  really  made  !  Whether  the  evil  of  life  actually 
outweighs  the  good, — or,  if  we  should  look  for  better  things, 
what  is  the  possibility  or  the  nature  of  a  Future  Life,  either 
for  ourselves  as  individuals,  or  as  part  of  some  great  whole,  or, 
again,  as  contributing  to  a  coming  state  of  perfection  ? — such 
inquiries  claim  an  amount  of  attention  which  the  mass  of  men 
everywhere  is  unwilling  to  give.  But,  in  any  case,  whether  it 
is  in  a  vague  assent  to  current  beliefs,  or  a  blind  reliance  on  a 
baseless  certainty,  or  an  impartial  attempt  to  put  away  what  is 
false, — hope  remains  as  the  deepest  foundation  of  every  faith 
in  a  happy  future. 

But  it  should  be  observed  that  this  looking  to  the  future  as  a 
complement  for  the  present  is  dictated  mainly  by  the  desire  to 
remedy  existing  ills  ;  and  that  the  great  hold  which  religion 


translator's  preface.  xm 

has  on  mankind,  as  an  incentive  to  present  happiness,  is  the 
promise  it  makes  of  coming  perfection.  Hope  for  the  future 
is  a  tacit  admission  of  evil  in  the  present ;  for  if  a  man  is  com- 
pletely happy  in  this  life,  and  looks  upon  happiness  as  the 
prevailing"  order,  he  will  not  think  so  much  of  another.  So  a 
discussion  of  the  nature  of  happiness  is  not  thought  complete 
if  it  takes  account  only  of  our  present  life,  and  unless  it  con- 
nects what  we  are  now  and  what  we  do  here  with  what  we  may 
be  hereafter.  Schopenhauer's  theory  does  not  profess  to  do 
this  ;  it  promises  no  positive  good  to  the  individual ;  at  most, 
only  relief ;  he  breaks  the  idol  of  the  world,  and  sets  up  noth- 
ing in  its  place  ;  and  like  many  another  iconoclast,  he  has  long 
been  condemned  by  those  whose  temples  he  has  desecrated. 
If  there  are  optimistic  theories  of/  life,  it  is  not  life  itself,  he 
would  argue,  which  gives  color  to  them  ;  it  is  rather  the  reflec- 
tion of  some  great  final  cause  which  humanity  has  created  as 
the  last  hope  of  its  redemption  : — 

Heaven  but  the  vision  of  fulfilled  desire, 
And  hell  a  shadow  from  a  soul  on  fire. 

Cast  on  the  darkness  into  which  ourselves. 
So  late  emerged  from,  shall  so  soon  expire.^ 

Still,  hope,  it  may  be  said,  is  not  knowledge,  nor  a  real 
answer  to  any  question  ;  at  most,  a  makeshift,  a  moral  support 
for  intellectual  weakness.  The  truth  is  that,  as  theories,  both 
optimism  and  pessimism  are  failures  ;  because  they  are  extreme 
views  where  only  a  very  partial  judgment  is  possible.  And  in 
view  of  the  great  uncertainty  of  all  answers,  most  of  those  who 
do  not  accept  a  stereotyped  system  leave  the  question  alone,  as 
being  either  of  little  interest,  or  of  no  bearing  on  the  welfare 
of  their  lives,  which  are  commonly  satisfied  with  low  aims  ;. 
tacitly  ridiculing  those  who  demand  an  answer  as  the  most 
pressing  affair  of  existence.  But  the  fact  that  the  final  prob- 
lems of  the  world  are  still  open,  makes  in  favor  of  an  honest 
attempt  to  think  them  out,  in  spite  of  all  previous  failure  or 
still  existing  difficulty  ;  and  however  old  these  problems  may 
be,  the  endeavor  to  solve  them  is  one  which  it  is  always  worth 
•  Omar  Khayyam  ;  translated  by  E.  Fitzgerald. 


xiv  translator's  preface, 

while  to  encourage  afresh.  For  the  individual  advantages 
which  attend  an  effort  to  find  the  true  path  accrue  quite  apart 
from  any  success  in  reaching  the  goal ;  and  even  though  the 
height  we  strive  to  climb  be  inaccessible,  we  can  still  see  and 
understand  more  than  those  who  never  leave  the  plain.  The 
sphere,  it  is  true,  is  enormous — the  study  of  human,  life  and 
destiny  as  a  whole  ;  and  our  mental  vision  is  so  ill-adapted  to 
a  range  of  this  extent  that  to  aim  at  forming  a  complete  scheme 
is  to  attempt  the  impossible.  It  must  be  recognized  that  the 
data  are  insufficient  for  large  views,  and  that  we  ought  not  to 
go  beyond  the  facts  we  have,  the  facts  of  ordinary  Hfe,  inter- 
preted by  the  common  experience  of  every  day.  These  form 
our  only  material.  The  views  we  take  must  of  necessity  be 
fragmentary — a  mere  collection  of  aperfus,  rough  guesses  at 
the  undiscovered  ;  of  the  same  nature,  indeed,  as  all  our  pos- 
sessions in  the  way  of  knowledge — little  tracts  of  solid  land 
reclaimed  from  the  mysterious  ocean  of  the  unknown. 

But  if  we  do  not  admit  Schopenhauer  to  be  a  great  teacher, 
— because  he  is  out  of  sympathy  with  the  highest  aspirations 
of  mankind,  and  too  ready  to  dogmatize  from  partial  views, — he 
is  a  very  suggestive  writer,  and  eminently  readable.  His  style 
is  brilliant,  animated,  forcible,  pungent ;  although  it  is  also 
discursive,  irresponsible,  and  with  a  tendency  to  superficial 
generalization.  He  brings  in  the  most  unexpected  topics 
without  any  very  sure  sense  of  their  relative  place ;  everything, 
in  fact,  seems  to  be  fair  game,  once  he  has  taken  up  his  pen. 
His  irony  is  noteworthy ;  for  it  extends  beyond  mere  isolated 
sentences,  and  sometimes  applies  to  whole  passages,  which 
must  be  read  cum  gratio  salts.  And  if  he  has  grave  faults  as 
well  as  excellences  of  literary  treatment,  he  is  at  least  always 
witty  and  amusing,  and  that,  too,  in  dealing  with  subjects — as 
here,  for  instance,  with  the  Conduct  of  Life — on  which  many 
others  have  been  at  once  severe  and  dull.  It  is  easy  to  com- 
plain that  though  he  is  witty  and  amusing,  he  is  often  at  the 
same  time  bitter  and  ill-natured.  This  is  in  some  measure  the 
unpleasant  side  of  his  uncompromising  devotion  to  truth,  his 
resolute  eagerness  to  dispel  illusion  at  any  cost — those  defects 


translator's   preface.  XV 

of  his  qualities  which  were  intensified  by  a  solitary  and,  until 
his  last  years,  unappreciated  life.  He  was  naturally  more  dis- 
posed to  coerce  than  to  flatter  the  world  into  accepting  his 
views ;  he  was  above  all  things  un  esprit  fort,  and  at  times 
brutal  in  the  use  of  his  strength.  If  it  should  be  urged  that, 
however  great  his  literary  qualities,  he  is  not  worth  reading 
because  he  takes  a  narrow  view  of  life  and  is  blind  to  some  of 
its  greatest  blessings,  it  will  be  well  to  remember  the  profound 
truth  of  that  line  which  a  friend  inscribed  on  his  earliest  bi- 
ography :  Sinonerrassetfecerat  iile  minus, ^  3i  truth  which  is 
seldom  without  application,  whatever  be  the  form  of  human 
effort.  Schopenhauer  cannot  be  neglected  because  he  takes 
an  unpleasant  view  of  existence,  for  it  is  a  view  which  must 
present  itself,  at  some  time,  to  every  thoughtful  person.  To 
be  outraged  by  Schopenhauer  means  to  be  ignorant  of  many 
of  the  facts  of  life. 

In  this  one  of  his  smaller  works,  Aphorismen  zur  Lebens- 
weisheit,  Schopenhauer  abandons  his  high  metaphysical  stand- 
point, and  discusses,  with  the  same  zest  and  appreciation  as  in 
fact  marked  his  enjoyment  of  them,  some  of  the  pleasures  which 
a  wise  man  will  seek  to  obtain, — health,  moderate  possessions, 
intellectual  riches.  And  when,  as  in  this  little  work,  he  comes 
to  speak  of  the  wisdom  of  life  as  the  practical  art  of  living,  the 
pessimist  view  of  human  destiny  is  obtruded  as  little  as  possible. 
His  remarks  profess  to  be  the  result  of  a  compromise — an  at- 
tempt to  treat  life  from  the  common  standpoint.  He  is  content  to 
call  these  witty  and  instructive  pages  a  series  of  aphorisms  ; 
thereby  indicating  that  he  makes  no  claim  to  expound  a  com- 
plete theory  of  conduct.  It  will  doubtless  occur  to  any  intel- 
ligent reader  that  his  observations  are  but  fragmentary  thoughts 
on  various  phases  of  life  ;  and,  in  reality,  mere  aphorisms — in 
the  old,  Greek  sense  of  the  word — pithy  distinctions,  definitions 
of  facts,  a  marking-off,  as  it  were,  of  the  true  from  the  false  in 
some  of  our  ordinary  notions  of  life  and  prosperity.  Here 
there  is  little  that  is  not  in  complete  harmony  with  precepts  to 
which  the  world  has  long  been  accustomed  ;  and  in  this  respect, 
>  Slightly  altered  from  Martial.    Epigram  :  I.  xxii. 


xvi  TRANSLATOR  S    PREFACE. 

also,  Schopenhauer  offers  a  suggestive  comparison  rather  than 
a  contrast  with  most  writers  on  happiness.  I 

The  philosopher  in  his  study  is  conscious  that  the  world  is 
never  likely  to  embrace  his  higher  metaphysical  or  ethical 
standpoint,  and  annihilate  the  will  to  live  ;  nor  did  Schopen- 
hauer himself  do  so  except  so  far  as  he,  in  common  with  most 
serious  students  of  life,  avoided  the  ordinary  aims  of  mankind. 
The  theory  which  recommended  universal  benevolence  as  the 
highest  ethical  duty,  came,  as  a  matter  of  practice,  to  mean  a 
formal  standing-aloof — the  ne plus  ultra  of  individualism.  The 
Wisdom  of  Life,  as  the  practical  art  of  living,  is  a  compromise. 
We  are  here  not  by  any  choice  of  our  own  ;  and  while  we 
strive  to  make  the  best  of  it,  we  must  not  let  ourselves  be  de- 
ceived. If  you  want  to  be  happy,  he  says,  it  will  not  do  to 
cherish  illusions.  Schopenhauer  would  have  found  nothing 
admirable  in  the  conclusion  at  which  the  late  M.  Edmond 
Scherer,  for  instance,  arrived.  L'  art  de  vivre,  he  wrote  in  his 
preface  to  Amiel's  Journal,  c'est  de  se  faire  une  raison,  de 
souscrire  au  compromis,  de  se  prcter  aux  fictions.  Schopen- 
hauer conceives  his  mission  to  be,  rather,  to  dispel  illusion,  to 
tear  the  mask  from  life  ; — a  violent  operation,  not  always  pro- 
ductive of  good.  Some  illusion,  he  urges,  may  profitably  be 
dispelled  by  recognizing  that  no  amount  of  external  aid  will 
make  up  for  inward  deficiency  ;  and  that  if  a  man  has  not  got 
the  elements  of  happiness  in  himself,  all  the  pride,  pleasure, 
beauty  and  interests  of  the  world  will  not  give  it  to  him.  Suc- 
cess in  life,  as  gauged  by  the  ordinary  material  standard,  means 
to  place  faith  wholly  in  externals  as  the  source  of  happiness,  to 
assert  and  emphasize  the  common  will  to  live,  in  a  word,  to  be 
vulgar.  He  protests  against  this  search  for  happiness — some- 
thing subjective — in  the  world  of  our  surroundings,  or  any- 
where but  in  a  man's  own  self;  a  protest  the  sincerity  of  which 
might  well  be  imitated  by  some  professed  advocates  of  spiritual 
claims. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  place  his  utterances  on  this  point 
side  by  side  with  those  of  a  distinguished  interpreter  of  nature 
in  this  country,  who  has  recently  attracted  thousands  of  readers 
by  describing    The  Pleasures  of  Life ;  in  other  words,   the 


translator's  preface.  xvii 

blessings  which  the  world  holds  out  to  all  who  can  enjoy 
them — health,  books,  friends,  travel,  education,  art.  On  the 
common  ground  of  their  regard  for  these  pleasures  there  is  no 
disagreement  between  the  optimist  and  the  pessimist.  But  a 
characteristic  difference  of  view  may  be  found  in  the  application 
of  a  rule  of  life  which  Schopenhauer  seems  never  to  tire  of 
repeating ;  namely,  that  happiness  consists  for  the  most  part 
in  what  a  man  is  in  himself,  and  that  the  pleasure  he  derives 
from  these  blessings  will  depend  entirely  upon  the  extent  to 
which  his  personality  really  allows  him  to  appreciate  them. 
This  is  a  rule  which  runs  some  risk  of  being  overlooked  in  the 
operation  of  dazzling  the  mind's  eye  by  a  description  of  all  the 
possible  sources  of  pleasure  in  the  world  of  our  surroundings ; 
but  Sir  John  Lubbock,  in  common  with  every  one  who  attempts 
a  fundamental  answer  to  the  question  of  happiness,  cannot 
afford  to  overlook  it.  The  truth  of  the  rule  is  perhaps  taken 
for  granted  in  his  account  of  life's  pleasures  ;  but  it  is  significant 
that  it  is  only  when  he  comes  to  speak  of  life' s  troubles  that  he 
freely  admits  the  force  of  it.  Happhiess,  he  says,  in  this  latter 
connection,  depends  much  more  on  what  is  within  than  without 
us.  Yet  a  rigid  application  of  this  truth  might  perhaps  dis- 
count the  effect  of  those  pleasures  with  which  the  world  is  said 
to  abound.  That  happiness  as  well  as  unhappiness  depends 
mainly  on  what  is  within,  is  more  clearly  recognized  in  the  case 
of  trouble  :  for  when  troubles  come  upon  a  man,  they  influence 
him,  as  a  rule,  much  more  deeply  than  pleasures.  How  few, 
even  amongst  the  millions  to  whom  these  blessings  are  open — 
health,  books,  travel,  art — really  find  any  true  or  permanent 
happiness  in  them  ! 

While  Schopenhauer's  view  of  the  pleasures  of  life  may 
be  elucidated  by  comparing  it  with  that  of  a  popular  writer 
like  Sir  John  Lubbock,  and  by  contrasting  the  appeals  they 
severally  make  to  the  outer  and  the  inner  world  as  a  source  of 
happiness  ;  Schopenhauer's  view  of  life  itself  will  stand  out 
more  clearly  if  we  remember  the  opinion  so  boldly  expressed 
by  the  same  English  writer.  1/  we  resolutely  look,  observes 
Sir  John  Lubbock,  I  do  not  say  at  the  bright  side  of  things,  but 
at  things  as  they  really  are  ;  if  we  avail  ourselves  of  the  mani- 


xviii  translator's  preface. 

fold  blessings  which  surround  us;  we  cannot  but  feel  that  life  is 
indeed  a  glorious  inheritance.^ 

There  is  a  splendid  excess  of  optimism  about  this  state- 
ment which  well  fits  it  to  show  up  the  darker  picture  drawn  by 
the  German  philosopher. 

Finally,  it  should  be  remembered  that  though  Schopen- 
hauer's picture  of  the  world  is  gloomy  and  sombre,  there  is 
nothing  weak  or  unmanly  in  his  attitude.  If  a  happy  exist- 
ence, he  says, — not  merely  an  existence  free  from  pain — is 
denied  us,  we  can  at  least  be  heroes  and  face  life  with  courage  : 
das  hochste  was  der  Mensch  erlangen  kann  ist  ein  heroischer 
Lebenslauf. 

A  noble  character  will  never  complain  at  misfortune ; 
for  if  a  man  looks  round  him  at  other  manifestations  of  that 
which  is  his  own  inner  nature,  the  will,  he  finds  sorrows  hap- 
pening to  his  fellowmen  harder  to  bear  than  any  that  have 
come  upon  himself 

And  the  ideal  of  nobility  is  to  deserve  the  praise  which 
Hamlet — in  Shakespeare's  Tragedy  of  Pessimism — gave  to 
a  friend  : 

7hou  hast  been 
As  one,  in  suffering  all,  that  suffers  nothing. 

But  perhaps  Schopenhauer's  theory  carries  with  it  its  own 
correction. 

He  describes  existence  as  a  more  or  less  violent  oscil- 
lation between  pain  and  boredom. 

If  this  were  really  the  sum  of  life,  and  we  had  to  rea- 
son from  such  a  partial  view,  it  is  obvious  that  happiness 
would  lie  in  action;  and  that  life  would  be  so  constituted 
as  to  supply  two  natural  and  inevitable  incentives  to  action, 
and  thus  to  contain  in  itself  the  very  conditions  of  hap- 
piness. 

Life  itself  reveals  our  destiny. 

It  is  not  the  struggle  which  produces  misery,  it  is  the  mis- 
taken  aims  and  the  low  ideals — was  uns  alle  bdndigt,  dcu 
Genuine  ! 

>  The  Pleasures  of  Life.     Part  I.,  p.  5.  T.  B.  S. 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER.  PAOE 

Introduction i 

I.    Division  of  the  Subject    .....        3 
II.   Personality,  or  what  a  Man  is      .        .        .12 

III.  Property,  or  what  a  Man  has        ...      36 

IV.  Position,  or  a   Man's   Place  in  the  Estima- 

tion OF  others — 

Sect.  I.  Reputation  .....       44 

2.  Pride.         .        .        .        .        .        .       51 

3-  Rank 53 

4.  Honor 54 

5.  Fame .85 


(i^ 


(C 


(( 


<c 


INTRODUCTION. 

IN  these  pages  I  shall  speak  of  Th£  Wisdom  of  Life  in  the 
common  meaning  of  the  term,  as  the  art,  namely,  of  order- 
ing our  lives  so  as  to  obtain  the  greatest  possible  amount  of 
pleasure  and  success  ;  an  art  the  theory  of  which  may  be  called 
Eudcernonology,  for  it  teaches  us  how  to  lead  a  happy  existence. 
Such  an  existence  might  perhaps  be  defined  as  one  which, 
looked  at  from  a  purely  objective  point  of  view,  or,  rather, 
after  cool  and  mature  reflection — for  the  question  necessarily 
involves  subjective  considerations, — would  be  decidedly  pre- 
ferable to  non-existence  ;  implying  that  we  should  cling  to  it 
for  its  own  sake,  and  not  merely  from  the  fear  of  death  ;  and 
further,  that  we  should  never  like  it  to  come  to  an  end. 

Now  whether  human  life  corresponds,  or  could  possibly 
correspond,  to  this  conception  of  existence,  is  a  question  to 
which,  as  is  well-known,  my  philosophical  system  returns  a 
negative  answer.  On  the  eudaemonistic  hypothesis,  however, 
the  question  must  be  answered  in  the  affirmative  ;  and  I  have 
shown,  in  the  second  volume  of  my  chief  work  (ch.  49),  that 
this  hypothesis  is  based  upon  a  fundamental  mistake.  Accord- 
ingly, in  elaborating  the  scheme  of  a  happy  existence,  I  have 
had  to  make  a  complete  surrender  of  the  higher  metaphysical 
and  ethical  standpoint  to  which  my  own  theories  lead  ;  and 
everything  I  shall  say  here  will  to  some  extent  rest  upon  a 
compromise ;  in  so  far,  that  is,  as  I  take  the  common  stand- 
point of  every  day,  and  embrace  the  error  which  is  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  My  remarks,  therefore,  will  possess  only  a  quali- 
fied value,  for  the  very  word  eudczmonology  is  a  euphemism. 
Further,  I  make  no  claims  to  completeness  ;  partly  because 
the  subject  is  inexhaustible,  and  partly  because  I  should  other- 

(I) 


2  INTRODUCTION. 

wise  have  to  say  over  again  what  has  been  already  said  by 
others. 

The  only  book  composed,  as  far  as  I  remember,  with  a  like 
purpose  to  that  which  animates  this  collection  of  aphorisms,  is 
Cardan's  De  ulilitate  ex  adversis  capienda,  which  is  well  worth 
reading,  and  may  be  used  to  supplement  the  present  work. 
Aristotle,  it  is  true,  has  a  few  words  on  eudaemonology  in  the 
fifth  chapter  of  the  first  book  of  his  Rhetoric  ;  but  what  he  says 
does  not  come  to  very  much.  As  compilation  is  not  my  busi- 
ness, I  have  made  no  use  of  these  predecessors  ;  more  espe- 
cially because  in  the  process  of  compiling,  individuality  of  view 
is  lost,  and  individuality  of  view  is  the  kernel  of  works  of  this 
kind.  In  general,  indeed,  the  wise  in  all  ages  have  always 
said  the  same  thing,  and  the  fools,  who  at  all  times  form  the 
immense  majority,  have  in  their  way  too  acted  alike,  and  done 
just  the  opposite  ;  and  so  it  will  continue.  For,  as  Voltaire 
says,  we  shall  leave  this  world  as  foolish  and  as  wicked  as  we 
found  it  on  our  arrival. 


THE   WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

CHAPTER   I. 

DIVISION   OF  THE   SUBJECT. 

ARISTOTLE^  divides  the  blessings  of  life  into  three 
classes — those  which  come  to  us  from  without,  those  of 
the  soul,  and  those  of  the  body.  Keeping  nothing  of  this 
division  but  the  number,  I  observe  that  the  fundamental  differ- 
ences in  human  lot  may  be  reduced  to  three  distinct  classes  : 

(i)  What  a  man  is  :  that  is  to  say,  personality,  in  the  widest 
sense  of  the  word  ;  under  which  are  included  health,  strength, 
beauty,  temperament,  moral  character,  intelligence,  and  educa- 
tion. 

(2)  What  a  man  has  :  that  is,  property  and  possessions  of 
every  kind. 

(3)  How  a  man  stands  in  the  estimation  of  others  :  by  which 
is  to  be  understood,  as  everybody  knows,  what  a  man  is  in  the 
eyes  of  his  fellowmen,  or,  more  strictly,  the  light  in  which  they 
regard  him.  This  is  shown  by  their  opinion  of  him  ;  and  their 
opinion  is  in  its  turn  manifested  by  the  honor  in  which  he  is 
held,  and  by  his  rank  and  reputation. 

The  differences  which  come  under  the  first  head  are  those 
which  Nature  herself  has  set  between  man  and  man  ;  and  from 
this  fact  alone  we  may  at  once  infer  that  they  influence  the 
happiness  or  unhappiness  of  mankind  in  a  much  more  vital 
and  radical  way  than  those  contained  under  the  two  following 
heads,  which  are  merely  the  effect  of  human  arrangements. 
Compared  with  genuine  personal  advantages^  such  as  a  great 
mind  or  a  great  heart,  all  the  privileges  of  rank  or  birth,  even 
^Eth.  Nichotn.,  I.  8.  0) 


^  THE  WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

of    royal  birth,  are  but  as  kings  on  the  stage,  to  kings  in  real 
life.     The  same  thing  was  said  long  ago  by  Metrodorus,  the 
earliest  disciple  of  Epicurus,  who  wrote  as  the  title  of  one  of 
his  chapters.  The  happifiess  we  receive  from  ourselves  is  greater 
than  that  which  we  obtain  from  our  surroundings.  *     And  it  is 
an  obvious  fact,  which  cannot  be  called  in  question,  that  the 
principal  element  in  a  man's  well-being, — indeed,  in  the  whole 
tenor  of  his  existence, — is  what  he  is  made  of,  his  inner  con- 
stitution.    For  this  is  the  immediate  source  of  that  inward 
satisfaction  or  dissatisfaction  resulting  from  the  sum  total  of 
his  sensations,  desires  and  thoughts  ;  whilst  his  surroundings, 
on  the  other  hand,  exert  only  a  mediate  or  indirect  influence 
upon  him.     This  is  why  the  same  external  events  or  circum- 
stances affect  no  two  people  alike  ;  even  with  perfectly  similar 
surroundings  every  one  Hves  in  a  world  of  his  own.     For  a 
man  has  immediate  apprehension  only  of  his  own  ideas,  feel- 
ings and  volitions  ;  the  outer  world  can  influence  him  only  in 
so  far  as  it  brings  these  to  life.     The  world  in  which  a  man 
lives  shapes  itself  chiefly  by  the  way  in  which  he  looks  at  it, 
and  so  it  proves  different  to  different  men  ;  to  one  it  is  barren, 
dull,  and  superficial ;  to  another  rich,  interesting,  and  full  of 
meaning.     On  hearing  of  the  interesting  events  which  have 
happened  in  the  course  of  a  man's  experience,  many  people 
will  wish  that  similar  things  had  happened  in  their  lives  too, 
completely  forgetting  that  they  should  be  envious  rather  of  the 
mental  aptitude  whicH  lent  those  events  the  significance  they 
possess  when  he  describes  them  ;  to  a  man  of  genius  they  were 
interesting  adventures  ;    out  to   the  dull   perceptions  of  an 
ordinary  individual  iney  would  have  been   stale,  every-day 
occurrences.     This  is  in  the  highest  degree  the  case  with  many 
of  Goethe's  and  Byron's  poems,  which  are  obviously  founded 
upon  actual  facts  ;  where  it  is  open  to  a  foolish  reader  to  envy 
the  poet  because  so  many  delightful  things  happened  to  him, 
instead  of  envying  that  mighty  power  of  phantasy  which  was 
capable  of  turning  a  fairly  common  experience  into  something 
so  great  and  beautiful. 

'  Cf.  Clemens  Alex.  Strom.  II.,  21. 


DIVISION  OF  THE  SUBJECT.  5 

In  the  same  way,  a  person  of  melancholy  temperament  will 
make  a  scene  in  a  tragedy  out  of  what  appears  to  the  sanguine 
man  only  in  the  light  of  an  interesting  conflict,  and  to  a  phleg- 
matic soul  as  something  without  any  meaning ; — all  of  which 
rests  upon  the  fact  that  every  event,  in  order  to  be  realized 
and  appreciated,   requires  the  co-operation   of  two   factors, 
namely,  a  subject  and  an  object ;  although  these  are  as  closely 
and  necessarily  connected  as  oxygen  and  hydrogen  in  water. 
When  therefore  the  objective  or  external  factor  in  an  experience 
is  actually  the  same,  but  the  subjective  or  personal  appreciation 
of  it  varies,  the  event  is  just  as  much  a  different  one  in  the 
eyes  of  different  persons  as  if  the  objective  factors  had  not  been 
ahke ;  for  to  a  blunt  intelligence  the  fairest  and  best  object  in 
the  world  presents  only  a  poor  reality,  and  is  therefore  only 
poorly  appreciated, — like  a  fine  landscape  in  dull  weather,  or 
in  the  reflection  of  a  bad  camera  obscura.     In  plain  language, 
every  man  is  pent  up  within  the  limits  of  his  own  conscious- 
ness, and  cannot  directly  get  beyond  those  limits  any  more 
than  he  can  get  beyond  his  own  skin  ;  so  external  aid  is  not 
of  much  use  to  him.     On   the  stage,    one  man  is  a  prince, 
another  a  minister,  a  third  a  servant  or  a  soldier  or  a  general, 
and  so  on, — mere  external  differences  :  the  inner  reality,  the 
kernel  of  all  these  appearances  is  the  same — a  poor  player, 
with  all  the  anxieties  of  his  lot.     In  life  it  is  just  the  same. 
Differences  of  rank  and  wealth  give  every  man  his  part  to  play, 
but  this  by  no  means  implies  a  difference  of  inward  happiness 
and  pleasure  ;  here,  too,  there  is  the  same  being  in  all — a  poor 
mortal,  with  his  hardships  and  troubles.     Though  these  may, 
indeed,  in  every  case  proceed  from  dissimilar  causes,  they  are 
in  their  essential  nature  much  the  same  in  all  their  forms,  with 
degrees  of  intensity  which  vary,  no  doubt,  but  in  no  wise  corre- 
spond to  the  part  a  man  has  to  play,  to  the  presence  or  absence 
of  position  and  wealth.     Since   everything   which   exists  or 
happens  for  a  man  exists  only  in  his  consciousness  and  happens 
for  it  alone,  the  most  essential  thing  for  a  man  is  the  constitu- 
tion of  this  consciousness,  which  is  in  most  cases  far  more  im- 
portant than  the  circumstances  which  go  to  form  its  contents. 


6  THE   WISDOM    OF    LIFE. 

All  the  pride  and  pleasure  of  the  world,  mirrored  in  the  dull 
consciousness  of  a  fool,  are  poor  indeed  compared  with  the 
imagination  of  Cervantes  writing  his  Don  Quixote  in  a  miser- 
able prison.  The  objective  half  of  life  and  reality  is  in  the 
hand  of  fate,  and  accordingly  takes  various  forms  in  different 
cases  :  the  subjective  half  is  ourself,  and  in  essentials  it  always 
remains  the  same. 

Hence  the  life  of  every  man  is  stamped  with  the  same  char- 
acter throughout,  however  much  his  external  circumstances 
may  alter  ;  it  is  like  a  series  of  variations  on  a  single  theme. 
No  one  can  get  beyond  his  own  individuahty.  An  animal, 
under  whatever  circumstances  it  is  placed,  remains  within  the 
narrow  limits  to  which  nature  has  irrevocably  consigned  it ; 
so  that  our  endeavors  to  make  a  pet  happy  must  always  keep 
within  the  compass  of  its  nature,  and  be  restricted  to  what  it- 
can  feel.  So  it  is  with  man  ;  the  measure  of  the  happiness  he 
can  attain  is  determined  beforehand  by  his  individuality.  More 
especially  is  this  the  case  with  the  mental  powers,  which  fix 
once  for  all  his  capacity  for  the  higher  kinds  of  pleasure.  If 
these  powers  are  small,  no  efforts  from  without,  nothing  that 
his  fellowmen  or  that  fortune  can  do  for  him,  will  suffice  to 
raise  him  above  the  ordinary  degree  of  human  happiness  and 
pleasure,  half  animal  though  it  be  ;  his  only  resources  are  his 
sensual  appetite, — a  cozy  and  cheerful  family  life  at  the  most, — 
low  company  and  vulgar  pastime  ;  even  education,  on  the 
whole,  can  avail  little,  if  anything,  for  the  enlargement  of  his 
horizon.  For  the  highest,  most  varied  and  lasting  pleasures 
are  those  of  the  mind,  however  much  our  youth  may  deceive 
us  on  this  point ;  and  the  pleasures  of  the  mind  turn  chiefly  on 
the  powers  of  the  mind.  It  is  clear,  then,  that  our  happiness 
depends  in  a  great  degree  upon  what  we  are,  upon  our  indi- 
viduality, whilst  lot  or  destiny  is  generally  taken  to  mean  only 
what  we  have,  or  our  reputation.  Our  lot,  in  this  sense, 
may  improve  ;  but  we  do  not  ask  much  of  it  if  we  are  inwardly 
rich  :  on  the  other  hand,  a  fool  remains  a  fool,  a  dull  block- 
head, to  his  last  hour,  even  though  he  were  surrounded  by 
houris  in  paradise.     This  is  why  Goethe,  in  the  West-dstlichet 


DIVISION   OF  THE   SUBJECT.  7 

Divan^  says  that  every  man,  whether  he  occupies  a  low  position 
in  life,  or  emerges  as  its  victor,  testifies  to  personality  as  the 
greatest  factor  in  happiness  : — 

Volk  und  Knecht  und  Uherwinder 

Sie  gosiehen,  zuj'eder  Zeit, 
H'dchstes  Gluck  der  Erdenkinder 

Set  nur  die  Personlichkeit. 

Everything  confirms  the  fact  that  the  subjective  element  in 
life  is  incomparably  more  important  for  our  happiness  and 
pleasure  than  the  objective,  from  such  sayings  as  Hunger  is 
the  best  sauce,  and  Youth  and  Age  cannot  live  together,  up  to 
the  life  of  the  Genius  and  the  Saint.  Health  outweighs  all 
other  blessings  so  much  that  one  may  really  say  that  a  healthy 
beggar  is  happier  than  an  ailing  king.  A  quiet  and  cheerful 
temperament,  happy  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  perfectly  sound 
physique,  an  intellect  clear,  lively,  penetrating  and  seeing 
things  as  they  are,  a  moderate  and  gentle  will,  and  therefore  a 
good  conscience — these  are  privileges  which  no  rank  or  wealth 
can  make  up  for  or  replace.  For  what  a  man  is  in  himself, 
what  accompanies  him  when  he  is  alone,  what  no  one  can  give 
or  take  away,  is  obviously  more  essential  to  him  than  every- 
thing he  has  in  the  way  of  possessions,  or  even  what  he  may 
be  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  An  intellectual  man  in  complete 
solitude  has  excellent  entertainment  in  his  own  thoughts  and 
fancies,  while  no  amount  or  diversity  of  social  pleasure,  theatres, 
excursions  and  amusements,  can  ward  off  boredom  from  a 
dullard.  A  good,  temperate,  gentle  character  can  be  happy 
in  needy  circumstances,  whilst  a  covetous,  envious  and  mali- 
cious man,  even  if  he  be  the  richest  in  the  world,  goes  miserable. 
Nay  more  ;  to  one  who  has  the  constant  delight  of  a  special 
individuality,  with  a  high  degree  of  intellect,  most  of  the  pleas- 
ures which  are  run  after  by  mankind  are  perfectly  superfluous  ; 
they  are  even  a  trouble  and  a  burden.  And  so  Horace  says 
of  himself,  that,  however  many  are  deprived  of  the  fancy -goods 
of  Ufe,  there  is  one  at  least  who  can  live  without  them  : — 
Getnmas,  marmor,  ebur,  Tyrrhena  sigilla,  tabellas, 
Argeritum,  vestes  Gcetulo  murice  tin  etas 
Sunt  qui  nan  habeant,  est  qui  nan  curat  habere ; 


8  THE   WISDOM   OF    LIFE. 

and  when  Socrates  saw  various  articles  of  luxury  spread  out  for 
sale,  he  exclaimed  :  How  much  there  is  in  the  world  I  do  not  want. 
So  the  first  and  most  essential  element  in  our  life's  happiness 
is  what  we  are, — our  personality,  if  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  it  is  a  constant  factor  coming  into  play  under  all  circum- 
stances :  besides,  unlike  the  blessings  which  are  described 
under  the  other  two  heads,  it  is  not  the  sport  of  destiny  and 
cannot  be  wrested  from  us  ; — and,  so  far,  it  is  endowed  with  an 
absolute  value  in  contrast  to  the  merely  relative  worth  of  the 
other  two.  The  consequence  of  this  is  that  it  is  much  more 
difficult  than  people  commonly  suppose  to  get  a  hold  on  a  man 
from  without.  But  here  the  all-powerful  agent,  Time,  comes 
in  and  claims  its  rights,  and  before  its  influence  physical  and 
mental  advantages  gradually  waste  away.  Moral  character 
alone  remains  inaccessible  to  it.  In  view  of  the  destructive 
effect  of  time,  it  seems,  indeed,  as  if  the  blessings  named  under 
the  other  two  heads,  of  which  time  cannot  directly  rob  us,  were 
superior  to  those  of  the  first.  Another  advantage  might  be 
claimed  for  them,  namely,  that  being  in  their  very  nature 
objective  and  external,  they  are  attainable,  and  every  one  is 
presented  with  the  possibility,  at  least,  of  coming  into  posses- 
sion of  them  ;  whilst  what  is  subjective  is  not  open  to  us  to 
acquire,  but  making  its  entry  by  a  kind  of  divine  right,  it 
remains  for  life,  immutable,  inalienable,  an  inexorable  doom. 
Let  me  quote  those  lines  in  which  Goethe  describes  how  an 
unalterable  destiny  is  assigned  to  every  man  at  the  hour  of  his 
birth,  so  that  he  can  develop  only  in  the  lines  laid  down  for 
him,  as  it  were,  by  the  conjunctions  of  the  stars  ;  and  how  the 
Sybil  and  the  prophets  declare  that  himself  a  man  can  never 
escape,  nor  any  power  of  time  avail  to  change  the  path  on 
which  his  life  is  cast  : — 

Wie  an  dem  Tag,  der  dich  der  Welt  verliehen, 
Die  Sonne  stand  zum  Grusse  der  Planeten, 
Eist  alsobald  undfort  undfort  gediehen, 
Nach  detn  Gesetz,  wonach  du  angetreten. 
So  musst  du  sein,  dir  kannst  du  nicht  entfliehen. 
So  sagten  schon  Sybtllen  und  Propheten  ; 
Und  keine  Zeit,  und  keine  Macht  zerstuckelt 
Gepragte  Form,  die  lebend  sich  entunckelt. 


DIVISION  OF  THE  SUBJECT.  9 

The  only  thing  that  stands  in  our  power  to  achieve,  is  to 
make  the  most  advantageous  use  possible  of  the  personal 
qualities  we  possess,  and  accordingly  to  follow  such  pursuits 
only  as  will  call  them  into  play,  to  strive  after  the  kind  of  per- 
fection of  which  they  admit  and  to  avoid  every  other  ;  conse- 
quently, to  choose  the  position,  occupation  and  manner  of  life 
which  are  most  suitable  for  their  development. 

Imagine  a  man  endowed  with  herculean  strength  who  is 
compelled  by  circumstances  to  follow  a  sedentary  occupation, 
some  minute  exquisite  work  of  the  hands,  for  example,  or  to 
engage  in  study  and  mental  labor  demanding  quite  other 
powers,  and  just  those  which  he  has  not  got, — compelled,  that 
is,  to  leave  unused  the  powers  in  which  he  is  pre-eminently 
strong  ;  a  man  placed  like  this  will  never  feel  happy  all  his  life 
through.  Even  more  miserable  will  be  the  lot  of  the  man  with 
intellectual  powers  of  a  very  high  order,  who  has  to  leave  them 
undeveloped  and  unemployed,  in  the  pursuit  of  a  calling  which 
does  not  require  them,  some  bodily  labor,  perhaps,  for  which 
his  strength  is  insufficient.  Still,  in  a  case  of  this  kind,  it 
should  be  our  care,  especially  in  youth,  to  avoid  the  precipice 
of  presumption,  and  not  ascribe  to  ourselves  a  superfluity  of 
power  which  is  not  there. 

Since  the  blessings  described  under  the  first  head  decidedly 
outweigh  those  contained  under  the  other  two,  it  is  manifestly 
a  wiser  course  to  aim  at  the  maintenance  of  our  health  and  the 
cultivation  of  our  faculties,  than  at  the  amassing  of  wealth  ;  but 
this  must  not  be  mistaken  as  meaning  that  we  should  neglect 
to  acquire  an  adequate  supply  of  the  necessaries  of  life.  Wealth, 
in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  that  is,  great  superfluity,  can 
do  little  for  our  happiness  ;  and  many  rich  people  feel  unhappy 
just  because  they  are  without  any  true  mental  culture  or 
knowledge,  and  consequently  have  no  objective  interests  which 
would  qualify  them  for  intellectual  occupations.  For  beyond 
the  satisfaction  of  some  real  and  natural  necessities,  all  that  the 
possession  of  wealth  can  achieve  has  a  very  small  influence 
upon  our  happiness,  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word  ;  indeed, 
wealth  rather  disturbs  if,  because  the  preservation  of  property 


lO  THE   WISDOM   OF    LIFE. 

entails  a  great  many  unavoidable  anxieties.  And  still  men  are 
a  thousand  times  more  intent  on  becoming  rich  than  on  acquir- 
ing culture,  though  it  is  quite  certain  that  what  a  man  is  con- 
tributes much  more  to  his  happiness  than  what  he  has.  So 
you  may  see  many  a  man,  as  industrious  as  an  ant,  ceaselessly 
occupied  from  morning  to  night  in  the  endeavor  to  increase  his 
heap  of  gold.  Beyond  the  narrow  horizon  of  means  to  this 
end,  he  knows  nothing  ;  his  mind  is  a  blank,  and  consequently 
unsusceptible  to  any  other  influence.  The  highest  pleasures, 
those  of  the  intellect,  are  to  him  inaccessible,  and  he  tries  in 
vain  to  replace  them  by  the  fleeting  pleasures  of  sense  in  which 
he  indulges,  lasting  but  a  brief  hour  and  at  tremendous  cost. 
And  if  he  is  lucky,  his  struggles  result  in  his  having  a  really 
great  pile  of  gold,  which  he  leaves  to  his  heir,  either  to  make 
it  still  larger,  or  to  squander  it  in  extravagance.  A  life  like 
this,  though  pursued  with  a  sense  of  earnestness  and  an  air  of 
importance,  is  just  as  silly  as  many  another  which  has  a  fool's 
cap  for  its  symbol. 

U^t  a  man  has  in  himself  is,  then,  the  chief  element  in  his 
happiness.  Because  this  is,  as  a  rule,  so  very  little,  most  of 
those  who  are  placed  beyond  the  struggle  with  penury,  feel  at 
bottom  quite  as  unhappy  as  those  who  are  still  engaged  in  it. 
Their  minds  are  vacant,  their  imagination  dull,  their  spirits 
poor,  and  so  they  are  driven  to  the  company  of  those  like 
them — for  similis  simili  gaudet — where  they  make  common 
pursuit  of  pastime  and  entertainment,  consisting  for  the  most 
part  in  sensual  pleasure,  amusement  of  every  kind,  and  finally, 
in  excess  and  libertinism.  A  young  man  of  rich  family  enters 
upon  life  with  a  large  patrimony,  and  often  runs  through  it  in 
an  incredible  short  space  of  time,  in  vicious  extravagance  ;  and 
why  ?  Simply  because,  here  too,  the  mind  is  empty  and  void, 
and  so  the  man  is  bored  with  existence.  He  was  sent  forth 
into  the  world  outwardly  rich  but  inwardly  poor,  and  his  vain 
endeavor  was  to  make  his  external  wealth  compensate  for  his 
inner  poverty,  by  trying  to  obtain  everything/r<7W  without^ 
like  an  old  man  who  seeks  to  strengthen  himself  as  King  David 
or  Mar6chal  de  Rex  tried  to  do.  And  so  in  the  end  one  who 
is  inwardly  poor  comes  to  be  also  poor  outwardly. 


DIVISION  OF  THE  SUBJECT.  II 

I  need  not  insist  upon  the  importance  of  the  other  two  kinds 
of  blessings  which  make  up  the  happiness  of  human  life  ;  now- 
a-days  the  value  of  possessing  them  is  too  well  known  to  re- 
quire advertisement.  The  third  class,  it  is  true,  may  seem, 
compared  with  the  second,  of  a  very  ethereal  character,  as  it  con- 
sists only  of  other  people's  opinions.  Still  every  one  has  to 
strive  for  reputation,  that  is  to  say,  a  good  name.  Rank,  on  the 
other  hand,  should  be  aspired  to  only  by  those  who  serve  the 
state,  and  fame  by  very  few  indeed.  In  any  case,  reputation 
is  looked  upon  as  a  priceless  treasure,  and  fame  as  the  most 
precious  of  all  the  blessings  a  man  can  attain, — the  Golden 
Fleece,  as  it  were,  of  the  elect :  whilst  only  fools  will  prefer 
rank  to  property.  The  second  and  third  classes,  moreover, 
are  reciprocally  cause  and  effect ;  so  far,  that  is,  as  Petronius* 
maxim,  habes  habeberis,  is  true  ;  and  conversely,  the  favor  ol 
others,  in  all  its  forms,  often  puts  us  in  the  way  of  getting  what 
we  want. 


CHAPTER   II. 

\^  .»    •   .  ..  PERSONALITYT  OR    WHAT   A    MAN    IS/- ,-• 

WE  have  already  seen,  in  general,  that  what  a  man  is 
contributes  much  more  to  his  happiness  than  what  he 
has.,  or  how  he  is  regarded  by  others.  What  a  man  is,  and  so 
what  he  has  in  his  own  person,  is  always  the  chief  thing  to 
consider  ;  for  his  individuality  accompanies  him  always  and 
everywhere,  and  gives  its  color  to  all  his  experiences.  In  every 
kind  of  enjoyment,  for  instance,  the  pleasure  depends  principally 
upon  the  man  himself.  Every  one  admits  this  in  regard  to 
physical,  and  how  much  truer  it  is  of  intellectual,  pleasure. 
When  we  use  that  English  expression,  "  to  enjoy  one's  self," 
we  are  employing  a  very  striking  and  appropriate  phrase  ;  for 
observe — one  says,  not  * '  he  enjoys  Paris, ' '  but  ' '  he  enjoys 
himself  in  Paris."  To  a  man  possessed  of  an  ill-conditioned 
individuality,  all  pleasure  is  like  delicate  wine  in  a  mouth 
made  bitter  with  gall.  Therefore,  in  the  blessings  as  well  as 
in  the  ills  of  life,  less  depends  upon  what  befalls  us  than  upon 
the  way  in  which  it  is  met,  that  is,  upon  the  kind  and  degree 
of  our  general  susceptibility.  What  a  man  is  and  has  in  him- 
self,— in  a  word  personality,  with  all  it  entails,  is  the  only 
immediate  and  direct  factor  in  his  happiness  and  welfare.  All 
else  is  mediate  and  indirect,  and  its  influence  can  be  neutralized 
and  frustrated  ;  but  the  influence  of  personality  never.  This 
is  why  the  envy  which  personal  quahties  excite  is  the  most 
implacable  of  all, — as  it  is  also  the  most  carefully  dissembled. 
Further,  the  constitution  of  our  consciousness  is  the  ever 
present  and  lasting  element  in  all  we  do  or  suffer  ;  our  indi- 
viduality IS  persistently  at  work,  more  or  less,  at  every  moment 

(la) 


PERSONALITY,  OR  WHAT  A  MAN  IS.  13 

of  our  life  :  all  other  influences  are  temporal,  incidental,  fleet- 
ing, and  subject  to  every  kind  of  chance  and  change.  This  is 
why  Aristotle  says:  It  is  not  wealth  but  character  tJiat  lasts} 

And  just  for  the  same  reason  we  can  more  easily  bear  a  mis- 
fortune which  comes  to  us  entirely  from  without,  than  one  which 
we  have  drawn  upon  ourselves  ;  for  fortune  may  always  change, 
but  not  character.  Therefore,  subjective  blessings, — a  noble 
nature,  a  capable  head,  a  joyfuj  .temperament,  .bright  spirits,  a 
well-constituted,  perfectly  sound  physique,  in  a  word,  mens 
Sana  in  corpore  sano,  are  the  first  and  most  important  elements 
in  happiness  ;  so  that  we  should  be  more  intent  on  promoting 
and  preserving  such  qualities  than  on  the  possession  of  external 
wealth  and  external  honor. 

And  of  all  these,  the  one  which  makes  us  the  most  directly 
happy  is  a  genial  flow  of  good  spirits  ;  for  this  excellent  quality 
is  its  own  immediate  reward.  The  man  who  is  cheerful  and 
merry  has  always  a  good  reason  for  being  so, — the  fact,  namely, 
that  he  is  so.  There  is  nothing  which,  like  this  quality,  can 
so  completely  replace  the  loss  of  every  other  blessing.  If  you 
know  anyone  who  is  young,  handsome,  rich  and  esteemed,  and 
you  want  to  know,  further,  if  he  is  happy,  ask.  Is  he  cheerful 
and  genial  ? — and  if  he  is,  what  does  it  matter  whether  he  is 
young  or  old,  straight  or  humpbacked,  poor  or  rich  ? — he  is 
happy.  In  my  early  days  I  once  opened  an  old  book  and 
found  these  words  :  If  you  laii^h  a  great  deal,  you  are  happy ; 
if  you  cry  a  great  deal,  you  are  unhappy ; — a  very  simple  re- 
mark, no  doubt ;  but  just  because  it  is  so  simple  I  have  never 
been  able  to  forget  it,  even  though  it  is  in  the  last  degree  a 
truism.  So  if  cheerfulness  knocks  at  our  door,  we  should 
throw  it  wide  open,  for  it  never  comes  inopportunely  ;  instead 
of  that,  we  often  make  scruples  about  letting  it  in.  We  want 
to  be  quite  sure  that  we  have  every  reason  to  be  contented  ; 
then  we  are  afraid  that  cheerfulness  of  spirits  may  interfere  with 
serious  reflections  or  weighty  cares.  Cheerfulness  is  a  direct 
and  immediate  gain, — the  very  coin,  as  it  were,  of  happiness, 
...     ,    '  Eth.  Eud.,  vii.  2.  37  : 


14  THE  WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

and  not,  like  all  else,  merely  a  cheque  upon  the  bank  ;  for  it 
alone  makes  us  immediately  happy  in  the  present  moment,  and 
that  is  the  highest  blessing  for  beings  like  us,  whose  existence 
is  but  an  infinitesimal  moment  between  two  eternities.  To 
secure  and  promote  this  feeling  of  cheerfulness  should  be  the 
supreme  aim  of  all  our  endeavors  after  happiness. 

Now  it  is  certain  that  nothing  contributes  so  little  to  cheer- 
fulness as  riches,  or  so  much,  as  health.  Is  it  not  in  the  lower 
classes,  the  so-called  working  classes,  more  especially  those  of 
them  who  live  in  the  country,  that  we  see  cheerful  and  con- 
tented faces  ?  and  is  it  not  amongst  the  rich,  the  upper  classes, 
that  we  find  faces  full  of  ill-humor  and  vexation?  Consequently 
we  should  try  as  much  as  possible  to  maintain  a  high  degree 
of  health  ;  for  cheerfulness  is  the  very  flower  of  it.  I  need 
hardly  say  what  one  must  do  to  be  healthy — avoid  every  kind 
of  excess,  all  violent  and  unpleasant  emotion,  all  mental  over- 
strain, take  daily  exercise  in  the  open  air,  cold  baths  and  such 
like  hygienic  measures.  For  without  a  proper  amount  of  daily 
exercise  no  one  can  remain  healthy  ;  all  the  processes  of  life 
demand  exercise  for  the  due  performance  of  their  functions, 
exercise  not  only  of  the  parts  more  immediately  concerned,  but 
also  of  the  whole  body.  For,  as  Aristotle  rightly  says.  Life  is 
movement ;  it  is  its  very  essence.  Ceaseless  and  rapid  motion 
goes  on  in  every  part  of  the  organism.  The  heart,  with  its 
complicated  double  systole  and  diastole,  beats  strongly  and 
untiringly  ;  with  twenty-eight  beats  it  has  to  drive  the  whole 
of  the  blood  through  arteries,  veins  and  capillaries  ;  the  lungs 
pump  like  a  steam-engine,  without  intermission  ;  the  intestines 
are  always  in  peristaltic  action  ;  the  glands  are  all  constantly 
absorbing  and  secreting  ;  even  the  brain  has  a  double  motion 
of  its  own,  with  every  beat  of  the  pulse  and  every  breath  we 
draw.  When  people  can  get  no  exercise  at  all,  as  is  the  case 
with  the  countless  numbers  who  are  condemned  to  a  sedentary 
life,  there  is  a  glaring  and  fatal  disproportion  between  outward 
inactivity  and  inner  tumult.  For  this  ceaseless  internal  motion 
requires  some  external  counterpart,  and  the  want  of  it  produces 
effects  like  those  of  emotion  which  we  are  obliged  to  suppress. 


PERSONALITY,    OR   WHAT    A    MAN    IS.  15 

Even  trees  must  be  shaken  by  the  wind,  if  they  are  to  thrive. 
The  rule  which  finds  its  application  here  may  be  most  briefly 
expressed  in  Latin  :  omnis  motus,  quo  celerior,  eo  magis  tnotus. 

How  much  our  happiness  depends  upon  our  spirits,  and 
these  again  upon  our  state  of  health,  may  be  seen  by  compar- 
ing the  influence  which  the  same  external  circumstances  or 
events  have  upon  us  when  we  are  well  and  strong  with  the 
effects  which  they  have  when  we  are  depressed  and  troubled 
with  ill-health.     It  is  not  what  things  are  objectively  and  in 
themselves,  but  what  they  are  for  us,  in  our  way  of  looking  at 
them,  that  makes  us  happy  or  the  reverse.    As  Epictetus  says, 
Men  are  not  influenced  by  things,  but  by  their  thoughts  about 
things.    And,  in  general,  nine-tenths  of  our  happiness  depends 
upon  health  alone.     With  health,  everything  is  a  source  of 
pleasure  ;  without  it,    nothing  else,    whatever  it  may  be,   is 
enjoyable  ;  even  the  other  personal  blessings, — a  great  mind, 
a  happy  temperament — are  degraded  and  dwarfed  for  want  of 
it.     So   it  is  really  with  good  reason  that,  when  two  people 
meet,  the  first  thing  they  do  is  to  inquire  after  each  other's 
health,    and  to  express  the  hope  that  it  is  good  ;  for  good 
health  is  by  far  the  most  important  element  in  human  happi- 
ness.    It  follows  from  all  this  that  the  greatest  of  follies  is  to 
sacrifice  health  for  any  other  kind  of  happiness,  whatever  it 
may  be,  for  gain,   advancement,  learning  or  fame,  let  alone, 
then,  for  fleeting  sensual  pleasures.     Everything  else  should 
rather  be  postponed  to  it. 

But  however  much  health  may  contribute  to  that  flow  of 
good  spirits  which  is  so  essential  to  our  happiness,  good  spirits 
do  not  entirely  depend  upon  health  ;  for  a  man  may  be  per- 
fectly sound  in  his  physique  and  still  possess  a  melancholy 
temperament  and  be  generally  given  up  to  sad  thoughts.  The 
ultimate  cause  of  this  is  undoubtedly  to  be  found  in  innate, 
and  therefore  unalterable,  physical  constitution,  especially  in 
the  more  or  less  normal  relation  of  a  man's  sensitiveness  to  his 
muscular  and  vital  energy.  Abnormal  sensitiveness  produces 
inequality  of  spirits,  a  predominating  melancholy,  with  peri- 
odical fits  of  unrestrained  liveliness.     A  genius  is  one  whose 


l6  THE  WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

nervous  power  or  sensitiveness  is  largely  in  excess  ;  as  Aris- 
totle' has  very  correctly  observed,  Men  distinguished  in  phi- 
losophy, politics,  poetry  or  art,  appear  to  be  all  of  a  melancholy 
temperament.  This  is  doubtless  the  passage  which  Cicero  has 
in  his  mind  when  he  says,  as  he  often  does,  Aristoteles  aitomnes 
ingeniosos  melancholicos  esse.^  Shakespeare  has  very  neady 
expressed  this  radical  and  innate  diversity  of  temperament  in 
those  lines  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice  : 

Nature  has  framed  strange  fellows  in  her  time  ; 

Some  that  will  evermore  peep  through  their  eyes, 

And  laugh,  like  parrots  at  a  bag-piper ; 

And  others  of  such  vinegar  aspect. 

That  they'll  not  show  their  teeth  in  way  of  smile, 

Though  Nestor  swear  the  Jest  be  laughable. 

This  is  the  difference  which  Plato  draws  between  evKolo^  and 
ivoKoloi — the  man  of  easy,  and  the  man  of  difficult  disposition — 
in  proof  of  which  he  refers  to  the  varying  degre.es  of  suscepti- 
bility which  different  people  show  to  pleasurable  and  painful 
impressions  ;  so  that  one  man  will  laugh  at  what  makes  an- 
other despair.  As  a  rule,  the  stronger  the  susceptibility  to 
unpleasant  impressions,  the  weaker  is  the  susceptibility  to 
pleasant  ones,  and  vice  versa.  If  it  is  equally  possible  for  an 
event  to  turn  out  well  or  ill,  the  ftmKoloc  will  be  annoyed  or 
grieved  if  the  issue  is  unfavorable,  and  will  not  rejoice,  should 
it  be  happy.  On  the  other  hand,  the  evKoXoi  will  neither  worry 
nor  fret  over  an  unfavorable  issue,  but  rejoice  if  it  turns  out 
well.  If  the  one  is  successful  in  nine  out  of  ten  undertakings, 
he  will  not  be  pleased,  but  rather  annoyed  that  one  has  mis- 
carried ;  whilst  the  other,  if  only  a  single  one  succeeds,  will 
manage  to  find  consolation  in  the  fact  and  remain  cheerful. 
But  here  is  another  instance  of  the  truth,  that  hardly  any  evil 
is  entirely  without  its  compensation  ;  for  the  misfortunes  and 
sufferings  which  the  vokoaol,  that  is,  people  of  gloomy  and 
anxious  character,  have  to  overcome,  are,  on  the  whole,  more 
imaginary  and  therefore  less  real  than  those  which  befall  the 

>  Probl.  XXX.,  ep.  i.  «  Tusc.  i.,  33. 


PERSONALITY,    OR   WHAT   A   MAN    IS.  1 7 

gay  and  careless;  for  a  man  who  paints  everything  black, 
who  constantly  fears  the  worst  and  takes  measures  accordingly, 
will  not  be  disappointed  so  often  in  this  world,  as  one  who 
always  looks  upon  the  bright  side  of  things.  And  when  a 
morbid  affection  of  the  nerves,  or  a  derangement  of  the  diges- 
tive organs,  plays  into  the  hands  of  an  innate  tendency  to 
gloom,  this  tendency  may  reach  such  a  height  that  permanent 
discomfort  produces  a  weariness  of  life.  So  arises  an  inclina- 
tion to  suicide,  which  even  the  most  trivial  unpleasantness 
may  actually  bring  about ;  nay,  when  the  tendency  attains  its 
worst  form,  it  may  be  occasioned  by  nothing  in  particular, 
but  a  man  may  resolve  to  put  an  end  to  his  existence,  simply 
because  he  is  permanently  unhappy,  and  then  coolly  and  firmly 
carry  out  his  determination  ;  as  may  be  seen  by  the  way  in 
which  the  sufferer,  when  placed  under  supervision,  as  he 
usually  is,  eagerly  waits  to  seize  the  first  ungarded  moment, 
when,  without  a  shudder,  without  a  struggle  or  recoil,  he  may 
use  the  now  natural  and  welcome  means  of  effecting  his  release.^ 
Even  the  healthiest,  perhaps  even  the  most  cheerful  man,  may 
resolve  upon  death  under  certain  circumstances  ;  when,  for 
instance,  his  sufferings,  or  his  fears  of  some  inevitable  mis- 
fortune, reach  such  a  pitch  as  to  outweigh  the  terrors  of  death. 
The  only  difference  lies  in  the  degree  of  suffering  necessary  to 
bring  about  the  fatal  act,  a  degree  which  will  be  high  in  the 
case  of  a  cheerful,  and  low  in  that  of  a  gloomy  man.  The 
greater  the  melancholy,  the  lower  need  the  degree  be  ;  in  the 
end,  it  may  even  sink  to  zero.  But  if  a  man  is  cheerful,  and 
his  spirits  are  supported  by  good  health,  it  requires  a  high 
degree  of  suffering  to  make  him  lay  hands  upon  himself.  There 
are  countless  steps  in  the  scale  between  the  two  extremes  of 
suicide,  the  suicide  which  springs  merely  from  a  morbid  in- 
tensification of  innate  gloom,  and  the  suicide  of  the  healthy  and 
cheerful  man,  who  has  entirely  objective  grounds  for  putting 
an  end  to  his  existence. 

'  For  a  detailed  description  of  this  condition  of  mind  Cf  Esquirol 
Des  maladies  tnentales. 


I8  THE   WISDOM    OF   LIFE. 

Beauty  is  partly  an  affair  of  health.  It  may  be  reckoned  as 
a  personal  advantage  ;  though  it  does  not,  properly  speaking, 
contribute  directly  to  our  happiness.  It  does  so  indirectly,  by 
impressing  other  people  ;  and  it  is  no  unimportant  advantage, 
even  in  man.  Beauty  is  an  open  letter  of  recommendation, 
predisposing  the  heart  to  favor  the  person  who  presents  it. 
As  is  well  said  in  those  lines  of  Homer,  the  gift  of  beauty  is  not 
lightly  to  be  thrown  away,  that  glorious  gift  which  none  can 
bestow  save  the  gods  alone — 

ovToi  dir6j3^7}T'  iprl  deuv  ipiKvdea  dupa, 

baaa  kcv  avrbi  Suaiv,  iKuv  S'oix  uv  ric  iXoiro.^ 

The  most  general  survey  shows  us  that  the  two  foes  oi 
human  happiness  are  pain  and  boredom.  We  may  go  further, 
and  say  that  in  the  degree  in  which  we  are  fortunate  enough 
to  get  away  from  the  one,  we  approach  the  other.  Life  pre- 
sents, in  fact,  a  more  or  less  violent  oscillation  between  the 
two.  The  reason  of  this  is  that  each  of  these  two  poles  stands 
in  a  double  antagonism  to  the  other,  external  or  objective, 
and  inner  or  subjective.  Needy  surroundings  and  poverty 
produce  pain  ;  while,  if  a  man  is  more  than  well  off,  he  is 
bored.  Accordingly,  while  the  lower  classes  are  engaged  in 
a  ceaseless  struggle  with  need,  in  other  words,  with  pain,  the 
upper  carry  on  a  constant  and  often  desperate  battle  with  bore- 
dom.' The  inner  or  subjective  antagonism  arises  from  the  fact 
that,  in  the  individual,  susceptibility  to  pain  varies  inversely 
with  susceptibility  to  boredom,  because  susceptibility  is  directly 
proportionate  to  mental  power.  Let  me  explain.  A  dull 
mind  is,  as  a  rule,  associated  with  dull  sensibilities,  nerves  which 
no  stimulus  can  affect,  a  temperament,  in  short,  which  does 
not  feel  pain  or  anxiety  very  much,  however  great  or  terrible 
it  may  be.  Now,  intellectual  dullness  is  at  the  bottom  of  that 
vacuity  of  soul  which  is  stamped  on  so  many  faces,  a  state  of 
mind  which  betrays  itself  by  a  constant  and  lively  attention  to 

'  Iliad  3,  65. 

*  And  the  extremes  meet ;  for  the  lowest  state  of  civilization,  a 
nomad  or  wandering  life,  finds  its  counterpart  in  the  highest,  where 
everyone  is  at  times  a  tourist.  The  earlier  stage  was  a  case  of  neces- 
sity ;  the  latter  is  a  remedy  for  boredom. 


PERSONALITY,    OR   WHAT  A   MAN   IS.  1 9 

all  the  trivial  circumstances  in  the  external  world.  This  is  the 
true  source  of  boredom — a  continual  panting  after  excitement, 
in  order  to  have  a  pretext  for  giving  the  mind  and  spirits 
something  to  occupy  them.  The  kind  of  things  people  choose 
for  this  purpose^  snows  that  they  are  not  very  particular,  as 
witness  the  miserable  pastimes  they  have  recourse  to,  and  their 
ideas  of  social  pleasure  and  conversation  :  or  again,  the  num- 
ber of  people  who  gossip  on  the  doorstep  or  gape  out  of  the 
window.  It  is  mainly  because  of  this  inner  vacuity  of  soul 
that  people  go  in  quest  of  society,  diversion,  amusement,  lux- 
ury of  every  sort,  which  lead  many  to  extravagance  and  misery. 
Nothing  is  so  good  a  protection  against  such  misery  as  inward 
wealth,  the  wealth  of  the  mind,  because  the  greater  it  grows, 
the  less  room  it  leaves  for  boredom.  The  inexhaustible  act- 
ivity of  thought  !  finding  ever  new  material  to  work  upon  in 
the  multifarious  phenomena  of  self  and  nature,  and  able  and 
ready  to  form  new  combinations  of  them, — there  you  have 
something  that  invigorates  the  mind,  and  apart  from  moments 
of  relaxation,  sets  it  far  above  the  reach  of  boredom. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  this  high  degree  of  intelligence  is 
rooted  in  a  high  degree  of  susceptibility,  greater  strength  of 
will,  greater  passionateness  ;  and  from  the  union  of  these 
qualities  comes  an  increased  capacity  for  emotion,  an  enhanced 
sensibility  to  all  mental  and  even  bodily  pain,  greater  impatience 
of  obstacles,  greater  resentment  of  interruption  ; — all  of  which 
tendencies  are  augmented  by  the  power  of  the  imagination,  the 
vivid  character  of  the  whole  range  of  thought,  including  what 
is  disagreeable.  This  applies,  in  varying  degrees,  to  every 
step  in  the  long  scale  of  mental  power,  from  the  veriest  dunce 
to  the  greatest  genius  that  ever  lived.  Therefore  the  nearer 
anyone  is,  either  from  a  subjective  or  from  an  objective  point 
of  view,  to  one  of  these  sources  of  suffering  in  human  life,  the 
farther  he  is  from  the  other.  And  so  a  man's  natural  bent  will 
lead  him  to  make  his  objective  world  conform  to  his  subjective 
as  much  as  possible  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  will  take  the  greatest 
measures  against  that  form  of  suffering  to  which  he  is  most 
liable.  The  wise  man  will,  above  all,  strive  after  freedom  from 
pain  and  annoyance,  quiet  and  leisure,  consequently  a  tranquil, 


20  THE  WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

modest  life,  with  as  few  encounters  as  may  be  ;  and  so,  after  a 
little  experience  of  his  so-called  fellowmen,  he  will  elect  to  live 
in  retirement,  or  even,  if  he  is  a  man  of  great  intellect,  in 
solitude.  For  the  more  a  man  has  in  himself,  the  less  he  will 
want  from  other  people, — the  less,  indeed,  other  people  can  be 
to  him.  This  is  why  a  high  degree  of  intellect  tends  to  make 
a  man  unsocial.  True,  \{  quality  of  intellect  could  be  made  up 
for  by  quantity,  it  might  be  worth  while  to  live  even  in  the 
great  world  ;  but  unfortunately,  a  hundred  fools  together  will 
not  make  one  wise  man. 

But  the  individual  who  stands  at  the  other  end  of  the  scale  is 
no  sooner  free  from  the  pangs  of  need  than  he  endeavors  to  get 
pastime  and  society  at  any  cost,  taking  up  with  the  first  person 
he  meets,  and  avoiding  nothing  so  much  as  himself  For  in 
solitude,  where  every  one  is  thrown  upon  his  own  resources, 
what  a  man  has  in  himself  comes  to  light  ;  the  fool  in  fine  rai- 
ment groans  under  the  burden  of  his  miserable  personality,  a 
burden  which  he  can  never  throw  off,  whilst  the  man  of  talent 
peoples  the  waste  places  with  his  animating  thoughts.  Seneca 
declares  that  folly  is  its  own  burden, — omnis  stultitia  laborai 
fastidio  sui, — a  very  true  saying,  with  which  may  be  compared 
the  words  of  Jesus,  the  son  of  Sirach,  The  life  of  a  fool  is  worse 
than  deaths  And,  as  a  rule,  it  will  be  found  that  a  man  is 
sociable  just  in  the  degree  in  which  he  is  intellectually  poor  and 
generally  vulgar.  For  one's  choice  in  this  world  does  not  go 
much  beyond  solitude  on  one  side  and  vulgarity  on  the  other. 
It  is  said  that  the  most  sociable  of  all  people  are  the  negroes  ; 
and  they  are  at  the  bottom  of  the  scale  in  intellect.  I  remember 
reading  once  in  a  French  paper'  that  the  blacks  in  North 
America,  whether  free  or  enslaved,  are  fond  of  shutting  them- 
selves up  in  large  numbers  in  the  smallest  space,  because  they 
cannot  have  too  much  of  one  another's  snub-nosed  company. 

The  brain  may  be  regarded  as  a  kind  of  parasite  of  the 
organism,  a  pensioner,  as  it  were,  who  dwells  with  the  body  : 
and  leisure,  that  is,  the  time  one  has  for  the  free  enjoyment  of 
one's  consciousness  or  individuality,  is  the  fruit  or  produce 
of  the  rest  of  existence,  which  is  in  general  only  labor  and 
'  Ecclesiasticus,  xxii.  ii.        »  Le  Commerce,  Oct.  19th,  1837. 


PERSONALITY,  OR  WHAT  A  MAN  IS.  21 

effort.  But  what  does  most  people's  leisure  yield  ? — boredom 
and  dullness  ;  except,  of  course,  when  it  is  occupied  with 
sensual  pleasure  or  folly.  How  little  such  leisure  is  worth  may 
be  seen  in  the  way  in  which  it  is  spent :  and,  as  Ariosto  ob- 
serves, how  miserable  are  the  idle  hours  of  ignorant  men  ! — 
ozio  lungo  d^uomini  ignoranti.  Ordinary  people  think  merely 
how  they  shall  spend  their  time  ;  a  man  of  any  talent  tries  to 
use  it.  The  reason  why  people  of  limited  intellect  are  apt  to 
be  bored  is  that  their  intellect  is  absolutely  nothing  more  than 
the  means  by  which  the  motive  power  of  the  will  is  put  into 
force  :  and  whenever  there  is  nothing  particular  to  set  the  will 
in  motion,  it  rests,  and  their  intellect  takes  a  holiday,  because, 
equally  with  the  will,  it  requires  something  external  to  bring 
it  into  play.  The  result  is  an  awful  stagnation  of  whatever 
power  a  man  has — in  a  word,  boredom.  To  counteract  this 
miserable  feeling,  men  run  to  trivialities  which  please  for  the 
moment  they  are  taken  up,  hoping  thus  to  engage  the  will  in 
order  to  rouse  it  to  action,  and  so  set  the  intellect  in  motion  ; 
for  it  is  the  latter  which  has  to  give  effect  to  these  motives  of 
the  will.  Compared  with  real  and  natural  motives,  these  are 
but  as  paper  money  to  coin  ;  for  their  value  is  only  arbitrary- 
card  games  and  the  like,  which  have  been  invented  for  this 
very  purpose.  And  if  there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done,  a  man 
will  twirl  his  thumbs  or  beat  the  devil's  tattoo  ;  or  a  cigar  may 
be  a  welcome  substitute  for  exercising  his  brains.  Hence,  in 
all  countries  the  chief  occupation  of  society  is  card-playing,* 
and  it  is  the  gauge  of  its  value,  and  an  outward  sign  that  it  is 
bankrupt  in  thought.  Because  people  have  no  thoughts  to 
deal  in,  they  deal  cards,  and  try  and  win  one  another's  money. 
Idiots  !  But  I  do  not  wish  to  be  unjust ;  so  let  me  remark 
that  it  may  certainly  be  said  in  defence  of  card-playing  that  it 
is  a  preparation  for  the  world  and  for  business  life,  because 
one  learns  thereby  how  to  make  a  clever  use  of  fortuitous  but 

>  Translator's  Note. — Card-playing  to  this  extent  is  now,  no  doubt, 
a  thing  of  the  past,  at  any  rate  amongst  the  nations  of  northern 
Europe.  The  present  fashion  is  rather  in  favor  of  a  dilettante  interest 
in  art  or  literature. 


22  THE   WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

unalterable  circumstances,  (cards,  in  this  case),  and  to  get  as 
much  out  of  them  as  one  can  :  and  to  do  this  a  man  must 
learn  a  little  dissimulation,  and  how  to  put  a  good  face  upon 
a  bad  business.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  exacdy  for  this 
reason  that  card-playing  is  so  demoralizing,  since  the  whole 
object  of  it  is  to  employ  every  kind  of  trick  and  machination 
in  order  to  win  what  belongs  to  another.  And  a  habit  of  this 
sort,  learnt  at  the  card-table,  strikes  root  and  pushes  its  way 
into  practical  life  ;  and  in  the  affairs  of  every  day  a  man  grad- 
ually comes  to  regard  meum  and  tuum  in  much  the  same  light 
as  cards,  and  to  consider  that  he  may  use  to  the  utmost  what- 
ever advantages  he  possesses,  so  long  as  he  does  not  come 
within  the  arm  of  the  law.  Examples  of  what  I  mean  are  of 
daily  occurrence  in  mercantile  life.  Since,  then,  leisure  is  the 
flower,  or  rather  the  fruit,  of  existence,  as  it  puts  a  man  into 
possession  of  himself,  those  are  happy  indeed  who  possess 
something  real  in  themselves.  But  what  do  you  get  from  most 
people's  leisure? — only  a  good-for-nothing  fellow,  who  is  ter- 
ribly bored  and  a  burden  to  himself.  Let  us,  therefore,  rejoice, 
dear  brethren,  for  we  are  not  children  of  the  bondwoman,  but 
of  the  free. 

Further,  as  no  land  is  so  well  off  as  that  which  requires  few 
imports,  or  none  at  all,  so  the  happiest  man  is  one  who  has 
enough  in  his  own  inner  wealth,  and  requires  little  or  nothing 
from  outside  for  his  maintenance,  for  imports  are  expensive 
things,  reveal  dependence,  entail  danger,  occasion  trouble,  and 
when  all  is  said  and  done,  are  a  poor  substitute  for  home  pro- 
duce. No  man  ought  to  expect  much  from  others,  or,  in 
general,  from  the  external  world.  What  one  human  being 
can  be  to  another  is  not.  a  very  great  deal :  in  the  end  every 
one  stands  alone,  and  the  important  thing  is  who  it  is  that 
stands  alone.  Here,  then,  is  another  application  of  the  general 
truth  which  Goethe  recognizes  in  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit 
(Bk.  III.),  that  in  everything  a  man  has  ultimately  to  appeal 
to  himself;  or,  as  Goldsmith  puts  it  in  The  Traveller: 

Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign' d 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find. 


PERSONALITY,  OR  WHAT  A  MAN  IS.  2$ 

Himself  is  the  source  of  the  best  and  most  a  man  can  be  or 
achieve.  The-  more  this  is  so — the  more  a  man  finds  his 
sources  of  pleasure  in  himself — the  happier  he  will  be.  There- 
fore, it  is  with  great  truth  that  Aristotle  *  says,  To  be  happy 
means  to  be  self-sufficient.  For  all  other  sources  of  happiness 
are  in  their  nature  most  uncertain,  precarious,  fleeting,  the 
sport  of  chance  ;  and  so  even  under  the  most  favorable  circum- 
stances they  can  easily  be  exhausted  ;  nay,  this  is  unavoidable, 
because  they  are  not  always  within  reach.  And  in  old  age 
these  sources  of  happiness  must  necessarily  dry  up  : — love 
leavefs  us  then,  and  wit,  desire  to  travel,  delight  in  horses, 
aptitude  for  social  intercourse  ;  friends  and  relations,  too,  are 
taken  from  us  by  death.  Then  more  than  ever,  it  depends 
upon  what  a  man  has  in  himself;  for  this  will  stick  to  him 
longest ;  and  at  any  period  of  life  it  is  the  only  genuine  and 
lasting  source  of  happiness.  There  is  not  much  to  be  got 
anywhere  in  the  world.  It  is  filled  with  misery  and  pain  ;  and 
if  a  man  escapes  these,  boredom  lies  in  wait  for  him  at  every 
corner.  Nay  more  ;  it  is  evil  which  generally  has  the  upper 
hand,  and  folly  makes  the  most  noise.  Fate  is  cruel,  and  man- 
kind is  pitiable.  In  such  a  world  as  this,  a  man  who  is  rich  in 
himself  is  like  a  bright,  warm,  happy  room  at  Christmastide, 
while  without  are  the  frost  and  snow  of  a  December  night. 
Therefore,  without  doubt,  the  happiest  destiny  on  earth  is  to 
have  the  rare  gift  of  a  rich  individuality,  and,  more  especially, 
to  be  possessed  of  a  good  endowment  of  intellect  ;  this  is  the 
happiest  destiny,  though  it  may  not  be,  after  all,  a  very  bril- 
liant one. 

There    was    great  wisdom  in  that    remark  which    Queen 

Christina   of  Sweden    made,  in  her    nineteenth  year,  about 

Descartes,  who  had  then  lived  for  twenty  years  in  the  deepest 

solitude  in  Holland,  and,  apart  from  report,  was  known  to  her 

only  by  a  single  essay  :  M.  Descartes^  she  said,  is  tlie  happiest 

of  men,  and  his  condition  seems  to  m-e  much  to  be  envied."^     Of 

course,  as  was  the  case  with  Descartes,  e.xternal  circumstances 

must  be  favorable  enough  to  allow  a  man  to  be  master  of  his 

'  Eth.  Eud.,  vii.  2. 

*  Vie  de  Descartes,  par  Baillet.    Liv.  vii.,  ch.  10. 


24  THE  WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

life  and  happiness  ;  or,  as  we  read  in  Ecclesiastes,^ —  Wisdom 
is  good  together  with  an  inheritance,  and  profitable  unto  them 
that  see  the  sic7i.  The  man  to  whom  nature  and  fate  have  granted 
the  blessing  of  wisdom,  will  be  most  anxious  and  careful  to 
keep  open  the  fountains  of  happiness  which  he  has  in  himself; 
and  for  this,  independence  and  leisure  are  necessary.  To 
obtain  them,  he  will  be  willing  to  moderate  his  desires  and 
harbor  his  resources,  all  the  more  because  he  is  not,  like 
others,  restricted  to  the  external  world  for  his  pleasures.  So 
he  will  not  be  misled  by  expectations  of  office,  or  money,  or 
the  favor  and  applause  of  his  fellowmen,  into  surrendering  him- 
self in  order  to  conform  to  low  desires  and  vulgar  tastes  ;  nay, 
in  such  a  case  he  will  follow  the  advice  that  Horace  gives  in 
his  epistle  to  Maecenas.'  It  is  a  great  piece  of  folly  to  sacrifice 
the  inner  for  the  outer  man,  to  give  the  whole  or  the  greater 
part  of  one's  quiet,  leisure  and  independence  for  splendor, 
rank,  pomp,  titles  and  honor.  This  is  what  Goethe  did.  My 
good  luck  drew  me  quite  in  the  other  direction. 

The  truth  which  I  am  insisting  upon  here,  the  truth,  namely, 
that  the  chief  source  of  human  happiness  is  internal,  is  con- 
firmed by  that  most  accurate  observation  of  Aristotle  in  the 
Nichomachean  Ethics,^  that  every  pleasure  presupposes  some 
sort  of  activity,  the  application  of  some  sort  of  power,  without 
which  it  cannot  exist.  The  doctrine  of  Aristotle's,  that  a  man's 
happiness  consists  in  the  free  exercise  of  his  highest  faculties, 
is  also  enunciated  by  Stobaeus  in  his  exposition  of  the  Peripa- 
tetic philosophy*  :  happiness,  he  says,  means  vigorous  and 
successful  activity  in  all  your  undertakings ;  and  he  explains 
that  by  vigor  (dperT))  he  means  mastery  in  any  thing,  whatever 
it  be.  Now,  the  original  purpose  of  those  forces  with  which 
nature  has  endowed  man  is  to  enable  him  to  struggle  against 
the  difficulties  which  beset  him  on  all  sides.  But  if  this  struggle 
comes  to  an  end,  his  unemployed  forces  become  a  burden  to 
him  ;  and  he  has  to  set  to  work  and  play  with  them, — to  use 
'  vii.  12.  2  Lib.  I.,  ep.  7. 

Nee  somnum  plebis  laudo,  satur  a/Hlium,  nee 
Otia  divitiis  Arabum  Uberrima  muto. 

» i.  7  and  vii.  13,  14,  *  Eel.  eth.  ii.,  ch.  7. 


PERSONALITY,    OR  WHAT   A   MAN    IS.  2$ 

them,  I  mean,  for  no  purpose  at  all,  beyond  avoiding  the  other 
source  of  human  suffering,  boredom,  to  which  he  is  at  once 
exposed.  It  is  the  upper  classes,  people  of  wealth,  who  are 
the  greatest  victims  of  boredom.  Lucretius  long  ago  described 
their  miserable  state,  and  the  truth  of  his  description  may  be 
still  recognized  to-day,  in  the  life  of  every  great  capital — where 
the  rich  man  is  seldom  in  his  own  halls,  because  it  bores  him 
to  be  there,  and  still  he  returns  thither,  because  he  is  no  better 
off  outside ; — or  else  he  is  away  in  post-haste  to  his  house  in 
the  country,  as  if  it  were  on  fire  ;  and  he  is  no  sooner  arrived 
there,  than  he  is  bored  again,  and  seeks  to  forget  everything 
in  sleep,  or  else  hurries  back  to  town  once  more. 

^;irzV  saepe  foras  tnagnis  ex  csdibus  ille, 

Esse  donii  quern  pertaesum  est,  subitoque  reventat, 

Quippe  foris  nihilo  melius  qui  sentiai  esse. 

Currit,  agens  mannos,  ad  villain  precipitanter,  :■ 

Auxilium  tec  lis  quasi  ferre  ardentibus  instans  : 

Oscitat  extemplo,  tetigit  quunt  litnina  villae  ; 

Aut  abit  in  somnum  gravis,  atque  oblivia  quaerii ; 

Aut  etiam  properans  urbetn  petit  atque  revisit-  • 

In  their  youth,  such  people  must  have  had  a  superfluity  of 
muscular  and  vital  energy, — powers  which,  unlike  those  of  the 
mind,  cannot  maintain  their  full  degree  of  vigor  very  long  ; 
and  in  later  years  they  either  have  no  mental  powers  at  all.  or 
cannot  develop  any  for  want  of  employment  which  would  bring 
them  into  play  ;  so  that  they  are  in  a  wretched  plight.  Will, 
however,  they  still  possess,  for  this  is  the  only  power  that  is 
inexhaustible ;  and  they  try  to  stimulate  their  will  by  passionate 
excitement,  such  as  games  of  chance  for  high  stakes — undoubt- 
edly a  most  degrading  form  of  vice.  And  one  may  say 
generally  that  if  a  man  finds  himself  with  nothing  to  do,  he  is 
sure  to  choose  some  amusement  suited  to  the  kind  of  power 
in  which  he  excels, — bowls,  it  may  be,  or  chess  ;  hunting  or 
painting  ;  horse-racing  or  music  ;  cards,  or  poetry,  heraldry, 
philosophy,  or  some  other  dilettante  interest.  We  might 
classify  these  interests  methodically,  by  reducing  them  to  ex- 
pressions of  the  three  fundamental  powers,  the  factors,  that  is 

>  III.  1073. 


26  THE  WISDOM   OF  LIFE. 

to  say,  which  go  to  make  up  the  physiological  constitution  of 
man  ;  and  further,  by  considering  these  powers  by  themselves, 
and  apart  from  any  of  the  definite  aims  which  they  may  sub- 
serve, and  simply  as  affording  three  sources  of  possible  pleasure, 
out  of  which  every  man  will  choose  what  suits  him,  according 
as  he  excels  in  one  direction  or  another. 

First  of  all  come  the  pleasures  oi  vital  energy,  of  food,  drink, 
digestion,  rest  and  sleep  ;  and  there  are  parts  of  the  world 
where  it  can  be  said  that  these  are  characteristic  and  national 
pleasures.  Secondly,  there  are  the  pleasures  of  muscular 
energy^  such  as  walking,  running,  wrestling,  dancing,  fencing, 
riding  and  similar  athletic  pursuits,  which  sometimes  take  the 
form  of  sport,  and  sometimes  of  a  military  life  and  real  warfare. 
Thirdly,  there  are  the  pleasures  of  sensibility,  such  as  observa- 
tion, thought,  feeling,  or  a  taste  for  poetry  or  culture,  music, 
learning,  reading,  meditation,  invention,  philosophy  and  the 
like.  As  regards  the  value,  relative  worth  and  duration  of  each 
of  these  kinds  of  pleasure,  a  great  deal  might  be  said,  which, 
however,  I  leave  the  reader  to  supply.  But  every  one  will  see 
that  the  nobler  the  power  which  is  brought  into  play,  the 
greater  will  be  the  pleasure  which  it  gives  ;  for  pleasure  always 
involves  the  use  of  one's  own  powers,  and  happiness  consist  in 
a  frequent  repetition  of  pleasure.  No  one  will  deny  that  in 
this  respect  the  pleasures  of  sensibility  occupy  a  higher  place 
than  either  of  the  other  two  fundamental  kinds  ;  which  exist 
in  an  equal,  nay,  in  a  greater  degree  in  brutes  ;  it  is  his  pre- 
ponderating amount  of  sensibility  which  distinguishes  man 
from  other  animals.  Now,  our  mental  powers  are  forms  of 
sensibility,  and  therefore  a  preponderating  amount  of  it  makes 
us  capable  of  that  kind  of  pleasure  which  has  to  do  with  mind, 
so-called  intellectual  pleasure  ;  and  the  more  sensibility  pre- 
dominates, the  greater  the  pleasure  will  be.^ 

'  Nature  exhibits  a  continual  progress,  starting  from  the  mechanical 
and  chemical  activity  of  the  inorganic  world,  proceeding  to  the  vege- 
table, vyith  its  dull  enjoyment  of  self,  from  that  to  the  animal  world, 
where  intelligence  and  consciousness  begin,  at  first  very  weak,  and 
only  after  many  intermediate  stages  attaining  its  last  great  develop- 
ment in  man.  whose  intellect  is  Nature's  crowning  point,  the  goal  of 
all  her  efforts,  the  most  perfect  and  difficult  of  all  her  works.  And 
even  within  the  range  of  the  human  intellect,  there  are  a  great  many 


PERSONALITY,    OR   WHAT   A   MAN   IS.  27 

The  normal,  ordinary  man  takes  a  vivid  interest  in  anything 
only  in  so  fir  as  it  excites  his  will,  that  is  to  say,  is  a  matter 
of  personal  interest  to  him.  But  constant  excitement  of  the 
will  is  never  an  unmixed  good,  to  say  the  least ;  in  other 
words,  it  involves  pain.  Card-playing,  that  universal  occupa- 
tion of '  *  good  society ' '  everywhere,  is  a  device  for  providing 
this  kind  of  excitement,  and  that,  too,  by  means  of  interests 
so  small  as  to  produce  slight  and  momentary,  instead  of  real 
and  permanent,  pain.  Card-playing  is,  in  fact,  a  mere  tickling 
of  the  will.^ 

observable  differences  of  degree,  and  it  is  very  seldom  that  intellect 
reaches  its  highest  point,  intelligence  properly  so-called,  which  in  this 
narrow  and  strict  sense  of  the  word,  is  Nature's  most  consummate 
product,  and  so  the  rarest  and  most  precious  thing  of  which  the  world 
can  boast.  The  highest  product  of  Nature  is  the  clearest  degree  of 
consciousness,  in  which  the  world  mirrors  itself  more  plainly  and 
completely  than  anywhere  else.  A  man  endowed  with  this  form  of 
intelligence  is  in  possession  of  what  is  noblest  and  best  on  earth  ;  and 
accordingly,  he  has  a  source  of  pleasure  in  comparison  with  which  all 
others  are  small.  From  his  surroundings  he  asks  nothing  but  leisure 
for  the  free  enjoyment  of  what  he  has  got,  time,  as  it  were,  to  polish 
his  diamond.  All  other  pleasures  that  are  not  of  the  intellect  are  of  a 
lower  kind ;  for  they  are,  one  and  all,  movements  of  will — desires, 
hopes,  fears  and  ambitions,  no  matter  to  what  directed :  they  are 
always  satisfied  at  the  cost  of  pain,  and  in  the  case  of  ambition,  gener- 
ally with  more  or  less  of  illusion.  With  intellectual  pleasure,  on  the 
other  hand,  truth  becomes  clearer  and  clearer.  In  the  realm  of 
intelligence  pain  has  no  power.  Knowledge  is  all  in  all.  Further, 
intellectual  pleasures  are  accessible  entirely  and  only  through  the 
medium  of  the  intelligence,  and  are  limited  by  its  capacity.  For  all 
the  wit  there  is  in  the  world  is  useless  to  hint  who  has  none.  Still  this 
advantage  is  accompanied  by  a  substantial  disadvantage ;  for  the 
whole  of  Nature  shows  that  with  the  growth  of  intelligence  comes  in- 
creased capacity  for  pain,  and  it  is  only  with  the  highest  degree  of 
intelligence  that  suffering  reaches  its  supreme  point. 

'  Vulgarity  is,  at  bottom,  the  kind  of  consciousness  in  which  the 
will  completely  predominates  over  the  intellect,  where  the  latter  does 
nothing  more  than  perform  the  service  of  its  master,  the  will.  There- 
fore, when  the  will  makes  no  demands,  supplies  no  motives,  strong 
or  weak,  the  intellect  entirely  loses  its  power,  and  the  result  is  com- 
plete vacancy  of  mind.  Now  will  without  intellect  is  the  most  vulgar 
and  common  thing  in  the  world,  possessed  by  every  blockhead,  who, 
in  the  gratification  of  his  passions,  shows  the  stuff  of  which  he  is  made. 
This  is  the  condition  of  mind  called  vulgarity,  in  which  the  only 
active  elements  are  the  organs  of  sense,  and  that  small  amount  of 
intellect  which  is  necessary  for  apprehending  the  data  of  sense.  Ac- 
cordingly, the  vulgar  man  is  constantly  open  to  all  sorts  of  impres- 
sions, and  immediately  perceives  all  the  little  trifling  things  that  go 


28  THE  WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  man  of  powerful  intellect  is  capable  of 
taking  a  vivid  interest  in  things  in  the  way  of  mere  kyiowledge, 
with  no  admixture  oiwill;  nay,  such  an  interest  is  a  necessity 
to  him.     It  places  him  in  a  sphere  where  pain  is  an  alien, — a 
diviner  air,  where  the  gods  live  serene. 

QeoI  'pela  ^uovTsg.^ 

Look  on  these  two  pictures — the  life  of  the  masses,  one  long, 
dull  record  of  struggle  and  effort  entirely  devoted  to  the  petty 
interests  of  personal  welfare,  to  misery  in  all  its  forms,  a  life 
beset  by  intolerable  boredom  as  soon  as  ever  those  aims  are 
satisfied  and  the  man  is  thrown  back  upon  himself,  whence  he 
can  be  roused  again  to  some  sort  of  movement  only  by  the 
wild  fire  of  passion.  On  the  other  side  you  have  a  man  en- 
dowed with  a  high  degree  of  mental  power,  leading  an  existence 
rich  in  thought  and  full  of  life  and  meaning,  occupied  by 
worthy  and  interesting  objects  as  soon  as  ever  he  is  free  to  give 
himself  to  them,  bearing  in  himself  a  source  of  the  noblest 
pleasure.  What  external  promptings  he  wants  come  from  the 
works  of  nature,  and  from  the  contemplation  of  human  affairs 
and  the  achievements  of  the  great  of  all  ages  and  countries, 
which  are  thoroughly  appreciated  by  a  man  of  this  type  alone, 
as  being  the  only  one  who  can  quite  understand  and  feel  with 
them.  And  so  it  is  for  him  alone  that  those  great  ones  have 
really  lived  ;  it  is  to  him  that  they  make  their  appeal ;  the  rest 
are  but  casual  hearers  who  only  half  understand  either  them  or 
their  followers.  Of  course,  this  characteristic  of  the  intellectual 
man  implies  that  he  has  one  more  need  than  the  others,  the 
need  of  reading,  observing,  studying,  meditating,  practising, 
the  need,  in  short,  of  undisturbed  leisure.  For,  as  Voltaire 
has  very  rightly  said,  /here  are  no  real  pleasures  without  real 
needs ;  and  the  need  of  them  is  why  to  such  a  man,  pleasures 
are  accessible  which  are  denied  to  others, — the  varied  beauties 

on  in  his  environment :  the  lightest  whisper,  the  most  trivial  circum- 
stance, is  sufficient  to  rouse  his  attention  ;  he  is  just  like  an  animal. 
Such  a  man's  mental  condition  reveals  itself  in  his  face,  in  his  whole 
exterior  ;  and  hence  that  vulgar,  repulsive  appearance,  which  is  all 
the  more  offensive,  if,  as  is  usually  the  case,  his  will — the  only  factor 
in  his  consciousness — is  a  base,  selfish  and  altogether  bad  one. 
;.  'Odyssey  IV.,  805. 


*      PERSONALITY,  OR  WHAT  A  MAN  IS.  29 

of  nature  and  art  and  literature.  To  heap  these  pleasures  round 
people  who  do  not  want  them  and  cannot  appreciate  them,  is 
like  expecting  gray  hairs  to  fall  in  love.  A  man  who  is  privileg- 
ed in  this  respect  leads  two  lives,  a  personal  and  an  intellectual 
life  ;  and  the  latter  gradually  comes  to  be  looked  upon  as  the 
true  one,  and  the  former  as  merely  a  means  to  it.  Other  peo- 
ple make  this  shallow,  empty  and  troubled  existence  an  end  in 
itself.  To  the  life  of  the  intellect  such  a  man  will  give  the  pref- 
erence over  all  his  other  occupations  :  by  the  constant  growth 
of  insight  and  knowledge,  this  intellectual  life,  like  a  slowly- 
forming  work  of  art,  will  acquire  a  consistency,  a  permanent 
intensity,  a  unity  which  becomes  ever  more  and  more  complete ; 
compared  with  which,  a  life  devoted  to  the  attainment  of  per- 
sonal comfort,  a  life  that  may  broaden  indeed,  but  can  never 
be  deepened,  makes  but  a  poor  show  :  andyet,  as  I  have  said, 
people  make  this  baser  sort  of  existence  an  end  in  itself. 

The  ordinary  life  of  every  day,  so  far  as  it  is  not  moved  by 
passion,  is  tedious  and  insipid  ;  and  if  it  is  so  moved,  it  soon 
becomes  painful.  Those  alone  are  happy  whom  nature  has 
favored  with  some  superfluity  of  intellect,  something  beyond 
what  is  just  necessary  to  carry  out  the  behests  of  their  will; 
for  it  enables  them  to  lead  an  intellectual  life  as  well,  a  life  un- 
attended by  pain  and  full  of  vivid  interests.  Mere  leisure, 
that  is  to  say,  intellect  unoccupied  in  the  service  of  the  will,  is 
not  of  itself  sufficient :  there  must  be  a  real  superfluity  of 
power,  set  free  from  the  service  of  the  will  and  devoted  to  that 
of  the  intellect  ;  for,  as  Seneca  says,  otium.  sine  litteris  viors  est 
et  vivi  hominis  sepultura — illiterate  leisure  is  a  form  of  death, 
a  living  tomb.  Varying  with  the  amount  of  the  superfluity, 
there  will  be  countless  developments  in  this  second  hfe,  the  life 
of  the  mind  ;  it  may  be  the  mere  collection  and  labelling  of 
insects,  birds,  minerals,  coins,  or  the  highest  achievements  of 
poetry  and  philosophy.  The  life  of  the  mind  is  not  only  a 
protection  against  boredom  ;  it  also  wards  off  the  pernicious 
effe<5ls  of  boredom  ;  it  keeps  us  from  bad  company,  from 
the  many  dangers,  misfortunes,  losses  and  extravagances 
which  the  man  who  places  his  happiness  entirely  in  the  ob- 
jective world  is  sure   to   encounter.       My    philosophy,    for 


30  THE    WISDOM    OF   LIFE. 

instance,  has  never  brought  me  in  a  six-pence ;  but  it  has 
spared  me  many  an  expense. 

The  ordinary  man  places  his  life's  happiness  in  things  ex- 
ternal to  him,  in  property,  rank,  wife  and  children,  friends, 
society,  and  the  like,  so  that  when  he  loses  them  or  finds  them 
disappointing,  the  foundation  of  his  happiness  is  destroyed. 
In  other  words,  his  centre  of  gravity  is  not  in  himself ;  it  is 
constantly  changing  its  place,  with  every  wish  and  whim.  If 
he  is  a  man  of  means,  one  day  it  will  be  his  house  in  the  coun- 
try, another  buying  horses,  or  entertaining  fi-iends,  or  travel- 
ing,— a  life,  in  short,  of  general  luxury,  the  reason  being  that 
he  seeks  his  pleasure  in  things  outside  him.  Like  one  whose 
health  and  strength  are  gone,  he  tries  to  regain  by  the  use  of 
jellies  and  drugs,  instead  of  by  developing  his  own  vital  power, 
the  true  source  of  what  he  has  lost.  Before  proceeding  to  the 
opposite,  let  us  compare  with  this  common  type  the  man  who 
comes  midway  between  the  two,  endowed,  it  may  be,  not 
exactly  with  distinguished  powers  of  mind,  but  with  somewhat 
more  than  the  ordinary  amount  of  intellect.  He  will  take  a 
dilettante  interest  in  art,  or  devote  his  attention  to  some  branch 
of  science — botany,  for  example,  or  physics,  astronomy,  his- 
tory, and  find  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in  such  studies,  and 
amuse  himself  with  them  when  external  sources  of  happiness 
are  exhausted  or  fail  to  satisfy  him  any  more.  Of  a  man  like 
this  it  may  be  said  that  his  centre  of  gravity  is  partly  in  him- 
self. But  a  dilettante  interest  in  art  is  a  very  different  thing 
from  creative  activity  ;  and  an  amateur  pursuit  of  science  is  apt 
to  be  superficial  and  not  to  penetrate  to  the  heart  of  the  matter. 
A  man  cannot  entirely  identify  himself  with  such  pursuits,  or 
have  his  whole  existence  so  completely  filled  and  permeated 
with  them  that  he  loses  all  interest  in  everything  else.  It  is 
only  the  highest  intellectual  power,  what  we  call  genius^  that 
attains  to  this  degree  of  intensity,  making  all  time  and  exist- 
ence its  theme,  and  striving  to  express  its  peculiar  conception 
of  the  world,  whether  it  contemplates  life  as  the  subject  of 
poetry  or  of  philosophy.  Hence,  undisturbed  occupation  with 
himself,  his  own  thoughts  and  works,  is  a  matter  of  urgent 
necessity  to  such  a  man  ;  solitude  is  welcome,  leisure  is  the 


PERSONALITY,  OR  WHAT  A  MAN  IS.  3I 

highest  good,  and  everything  else  is  unnecessary,  nay,  even> 
burdensome. 

This  is  the  only  type  of  man  of  whom  it  can  be  said  that  his 
centre  of  gravity  is  entirely  in  himself;  which  explains  why  it 
is  that  people  of  this  sort — and  they  are  very  rare — no  matter 
how  excellent  their  character  may  be,  do  not  show  that  warm 
and  unlimited  interest  in  friends,  family,  and  the  community 
in  general,  of  which  others  are  so  often  capable ;  for  if  they 
have  only  themselves  they  are  not  inconsolable  for  the  loss  of 
everything  else.  This  gives  an  isolation  to  their  character, 
which  is  all  the  more  effective  since  other  people  never  really 
quite  satisfy  them,  as  being,  on  the  whole,  of  a  different  nature: 
nay  more,  since  this  difference  is  constantly  forcing  itself  upon 
their  notice,  they  get  accustomed  to  move  about  amongst  man- 
kind as  alien  beings,  and  in  thinking  of  humanity  in  general, 
to  say  they  instead  of  we. 

So  the  conclusion  we  come  to  is  that  the  man  whom  nature 
has  endowed  with  intellectual  wealth  is  the  happiest ;  so  true 
it  is  that  the  subjective  concerns  us  more  than  the  objective ; 
for  whatever  the  latter  may  be,  it  can  work  only  indirectiy, 
secondarily,  and  through  the  medium  of  the  former — a  truth 
finely  expressed  by  Lucian  : — 

TaXka  S'kx^t  ^tjiv  irXeiova  tQv  kteuvuv — ' 

the  wealth  of  the  soul  is  the  only  true  wealth,  for  with  all  other 
riehes  comes  a  bane  even  greater  than  they.  The  man  of 
inner  wealth  wants  nothing  from  outside  but  the  negative  gift 
of  undisturbed  leisure,  to  develop  and  mature  his  intellectual 
faculties,  that  is,  to  enjoy  his  wealth  ;  in  short,  he  wants  per- 
mission to  be  himself,  his  whole  life  long,  every  day  and  every 
hour.  If  he  is  destined  to  impress  the  character  of  his  mind 
upon  a  whole  race,  he  has  only  one  measure  of  happiness  or 
unhappiness — to  succeed  or  fail  in  perfecting  his  powers  and 
completing  his  work.  All  else  is  of  small  consequence.  Ac- 
cordingly, the  greatest  minds  of  all  ages  have  set  the  highest 
value  upon  undisturbed  leisure,  as  worth  exacdy  as  much  as 

»  Epigrammata,  12. 


^■  .^. 


32  THE  WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

the  man  himself.  Happiness  appears  to  consist  in  leisure y  says 
Aristotle  ; '  and  Diogenes  Laertius  reports  that  Socrates  praised 
leisure  as  the  fairest  of  all  possessions.  So,  in  the  Nichoma- 
chean  Ethics^  Aristotle  concludes  that  a  life  devoted  to  phi- 
losophy is  the  happiest ;  or,  as  he  says  in  the  Politics,^  the  free 
exercise  of  any  power,  whatever  it  may  be ,  is  happiness.  This, 
again,  tallies  with  what  Goethe  says  in  Wilhelm  Meister :  The 
man  who  is  bom  with  a  talent  which  he  is  meant  to  use,  finds 
his  greatest  happiness  in  tcsing.it. 

But  to  be  in  possession  of  undisturbed  leisure,  is  far  from 
being  the  common  lot ;  nay,  it  is  something  alien  to  human 
nature,  for  the  ordinary  man's  destiny  is  to  spend  life  in  pro- 
curing what  is  necessary  for  the  subsistence  of  himself  and  his 
family  ;  he  is  a  son  of  struggle  and  need,  not  a  free  intelligence. 
So  people  as  a  rule  soon  get  tired  of  undisturbed  leisure,  and 
it  becomes  burdensome  if  there  are  no  fictitious  and  forced 
aims  to  occupy  it,  play,  pastime  and  hobbies  of  every  kind. 
For  this  very  reason  it  is  full  of  possible  danger,  and  difficilis 
in  otio  quies  is  a  true  saying, — it  is  difficult  to  keep  quiet  if  you 
have  nothing  to  do.  On  the  other  hand,  a  measure  of  intellect 
far  surpassing  the  ordinary,  is  as  unnatural  as  it  is  abnormal. 
But  if  it  exists,  and  the  man  endowed  with  it  is  to  be  happy, 
he  will  want  precisely  that  undisturbed  leisure  which  the  others 
find  burdensome  or  pernicious  ;  for  without  it  he  is  a  Pegasus 
in  harness,  and  consequently  unhappy.  If  these  two  unnatural 
circumstances,  external  and  internal,  undisturbed  leisure  and 
great  intellect,  happen  to  coincide  in  the  same  person,  it  is  a 
great  piece  of  fortune  ;  and  if  fate  is  so  far  favorable,  a  man  can 
lead  the  higher  life,  the  life  protected  from  the  two  opposite 
sources  of  human  suffering,  pain  and  boredom,  from  the  pain- 
ful struggle  for  existence,  and  the  incapacity  for  enduring 
leisure  (which  is  free  existence  itself) — evils  which  may  be 
escaped  only  by  being  mutually  neutralized. 

But  there  is  something  to  be  said  in  opposition  to  this  view. 
Great  intellectual  gifts  mean  an  activity  pre-eminently  nervous 
in  its  character,  and  consequently  a  very  high  degree  of  sus- 
ceptibility to  pain  in  every  form.      Further,  such  gifts  imply 
•  Eth.  Nichom.  x.  7.  »  iv.  11. 


PERSONALITY,    OR   WHAT   A   MAN   IS.  33 

an  intense  temperament,  larger  and  more  vivid  ideas,  which, 
as  the  inseparable  accompaniment  of  great  intellectual  power, 
entail  on  its  possessor  a  corresponding  intensity  of  the  emo- 
tions, making  them  incomparably  more  violent  than  those  to 
which  the  ordinary  man  is  a  prey.  Now,  there  are  more  things 
in  the  world  productive  of  pain  than  of  pleasure.  Again,  a 
large  endowment  of  intellect  tends  to  estrange  the  man  who 
has  it  from  other  people  and  their  doings  ;  for  the  more  a  man 
has  in  himself,  the  less  he  will  be  able  to  find  in  them ;  and 
the  hundred  things  in  which  they  take  delight,  he  will  think 
shallow  and  insipid.  Here,  then,  perhaps,  is  another  instance 
of  that  law  of  compensation  which  makes  itself  felt  everywhere. 
How  often  one  hears  it  said,  and  said,  too,  with  some  plaus- 
ibility, that  the  narrow-minded  man  is  at  bottom  the  happiest, 
even  though  his  fortune  is  unenviable.  I  shall  make  no  at- 
tempt to  forestall  the  reader's  own  judgment  on  this  point; 
more  especially  as  Sophocles  himself  has  given  utterance  to 
two  diametrically  opposite  opinions  : — 

Ilo/lXy  rb  (ppovslv  evdai/iovia^ 
npuTov  VTapx^i-^ 

he  says  in  one  place — wisdom  is  the  greatest  part  of  happiness  ; 
and  again,  in  another  passage,  he  declares  that  the  life  of  the 
thoughtless  is  the  most  pleasant  of  all — 

'Ev  ra  (ppovEcv  yap  firjiev  f/diaTO^  (iioc.^ 

The  philosophers  of  the   0/d  Testament  find  themselves  in  a 

like  contradiction. 

The  life  of  a  fool  is  worse  than  death  ^ 

and — 

In  much  wisdom  is  much  grief ; 

and  he  that  increaseth  knowledge  increaseth  sorrow.* 

I  may  remark,  however,  that  a  man  who  has  no  mental 
needs,  because  his  intellect  is  of  the  narrow  and  normal  amount, 
is,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  what  is  called  a  philisiine — 
an  expression  at  first  peculiar  to  the  German  language,  a  kind 
of  slang  term  at  the  Universities,  afterwards  used,  by  analogy, 

1  Antigone,  1347-8.  2  Ajax,  554. 

3  Ecclesiasticus,  xxii.  11.  *  Ecclesiastes,  i.  18. 


34  THE   WISDOM    OF   LIFE. 

in  a  higher  sense,  though  still  in  its  original  meaning,  as  de- 
noting one  who  is  not  a  Son  of  the  Muses.  A  philistine  is  and 
remains  afioinoq  avtip.  I  should  prefer  to  take  a  higher  point  of 
view,  and  apply  the  term  philistine  to  people  who  are  always 
seriously  occupied  with  realities  which  are  no  realities  ;  but  as 
such  a  definition  would  be  a  transcendental  one,  and  therefore 
not  generally  intelligible,  it  would  hardly  be  in  place  in  the 
present  treatise,  which  aims  at  being  popular.  The  other 
definition  can  be  more  easily  elucidated,  indicating,  as  it  does, 
satisfactorily  enough,  the  essential  nature  of  all  those  qualities 
which  distinguish  the  philistine.  He  is  defined  to  be  a  man 
without  mental  needs.  From  this  it  follows,  firstly,  in  relation 
to  himself,  that  he  has  no  intellectual  pleasures ;  for,  as  was 
remarked  before,  there  are  no  real  pleasures  without  real  needs. 
The  Philistine's  life  is  animated  by  no  desire  to  gain  knowledge 
and  insight  for  their  own  sake,  or  to  experience  that  true 
aesthetic  pleasure  which  is  so  nearly  akin  to  them.  If  pleasures 
of  this  kind  are  fashionable,  and  the  philistine  finds  himself 
compelled  to  pay  attention  to  them,  he  will  force  himself  to  do 
so,  but  he  will  take  as  little  interest  in  them  as  possible.  His 
only  real  pleasures  are  of  a  sensual  kind,  and  he  thinks  that 
these  indemnify  him  for  the  loss  of  the  others.  To  him  oysters 
and  champagne  are  the  height  of  existence  ;  the  aim  of  his  life 
is  to  procure  what  will  contribute  to  his  bodily  welfare,  and  he 
is  indeed  in  a  happy  way  if  this  causes  him  some  trouble.  If 
the  luxuries  of  life  are  heaped  upon  him,  he  will  inevitably  be 
bored,  and  against  boredom  he  has  a  great  many  fancied 
remedies,  balls,  theatres,  parties,  cards,  gambling,  horses, 
women,  drinking,  traveling  and  so  on  ;  all  of  which  can  not 
protect  a  man  from  being  bored,  for  where  there  are  no  intel- 
lectual needs,  no  intellectual  pleasures  are  possible.  The 
peculiar  characteristic  of  the  philistine  is  a  dull,  dry  kind  of 
gravity,  akin  to  that  of  animals.  Nothing  really  pleases,  or 
excites,  or  interests  him,  for  sensual  pleasure  is  quickly  ex- 
hausted, and  the  society  of  philistines  soon  becomes  burden- 
some, and  one  may  even  get  tired  of  playing  cards.  True,  the 
pleasures  of  vanity  are  left,  pleasures  which  he  enjoys  in  his 
own  way,  either  by  feeling  himself  superior  in  point  of  wealth, 


PERSONALITY,    OR    WHAT   A    MAN   IS.  35 

or  rank,  or  influence  and  power  to  other  people,  who  there- 
upon pay  him  honor ;  or,  at  any  rate,  by  going  about  with 
those  who  have  a  superfluity  of  these  blessings,  sunning  him- 
self in  the  reflection  of  their  splendor — what  the  English  call 
a  snob. 

From  the  essential  nature  of  the  philistine  it  follows,  secondly, 
in  regard  to  others,  that,  as  he  possesses  no  intellectual,  but 
only  physical  needs,  he  will  seek  the  society  of  those  who  can 
satisfy  the  latter,  but  not  the  former.  The  last  thing  he 
will  expect  from  his  friends  is  the  possession  of  any  sort  of 
intellectual  capacity  ;  nay,  if  he  chances  to  meet  with  it,  it  will 
rouse  his  antipathy  and  even  hatred  ;  simply  because  in  addi- 
tion to  an  unpleasant  sense  of  inferiority,  he  experiences,  in 
his  heart,  a  dull  kind  of  envy,  which  has  to  be  carefully  con- 
cealed even  from  himself.  Nevertheless,  it  sometimes  grows 
into  a  secret  feeling  of  rancor.  But  for  all  that,  it  will  never 
occur  to  him  to  make  his  own  ideas  of  worth  or  value  conform 
to  the  standard  of  such  qualities  ;  he  will  continue  to  give  the 
preference  to  rank  and  riches,  power  and  influence,  which  in 
his  eves  seem  to  be  the  only  genuine  adv^antages  in  the  world  ; 
and  his  wish  will  be  to  excel  in  them  himself.  All  this  is  the 
consequence  of  his  being  a  man  without  intellectual  needs.  The 
great  affliction  of  all  philistines  is  that  they  have  no  interest  in 
ideas,  and  that,  to  escape  being  bored,  they  are  in  constant 
need  of  realities.  But  realities  are  either  unsatisfactory  or 
dangerous  ;  when  they  lose  their  interest,  they  become  fatigu- 
ing.    But  the  ideal  world  is  illimitable  and  calm, 

something  afar 
From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow. 

Note. — In  these  remarks  on  the  personal  qualities  which,  go 
to  make  happiness,  I  have  been  mainly  concerned  with  the 
physical  and  intellectual  nature  of  man.  For  an  account  of 
the  direct  and  immediate  influence  of  moralify  upon  happiness, 
let  me  refer  to  my  prize  essay  on  The  Foundation  of  Morals 
(Sec.  22.) 


CHAPTER    III. 

PROPERTY,  OR  WHAT   A    MAN   HAS. 

EPICURUS  divides  the  needs  of  mankind  into  three  classes, 
and  the  division  made  by  this  great  professor  of  happi- 
ness is  a  true  and  a  fine  one.  First  come  natural  and  necessary 
needs,  such  as,  when  not  satisfied,  produce  pain, — food  and 
clothing,  victus  et  amictus,  needs  which  can  easily  be  satisfied. 
Secondly,  there  are  those  needs  which,  though  natural,  are 
not  necessary,  such  as  the  gratification  of  certain  of  the  senses. 
I  may  add,  however,  that  in  the  report  given  by  Diogenes 
Laertius,  Epicurus  does  not  mention  which  of  the  senses  he 
means  ;  so  that  on  this  point  my  account  of  his  doctrine  is 
somewhat  more  definite  and  exact  than  the  original.  These 
are  needs  rather  more  difficult  to  satisfy.  The  third  class 
consists  of  needs  which  are  neither  natural  nor  necessary,  the 
need  of  luxury  and  prodigality,  show  and  splendor,  which 
never  come  to  an  end,  and  are  very  hard  to  satisfy.' 

It  is  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  define  the  limits  which 
reason  should  impose  on  the  desire  for  wealth  ;  for  there  is  no 
absolute  or  definite  amount  of  wealth  which  will  satisfy  a  man. 
The  amount  is  always  relative,  that  is  to  say,  just  so  much  as 
will  maintain  the  proportion  between  what  he  wants  and  what 
he  gets  ;  for  to  measure  a  man's  happiness  only  by  what  he 
gets,  and  not  also  by  what  he  expects  to  get,  is  as  futile  as  to 
try  and  express  a  fraction  which  shall  have  a  numerator  but  no 
denominator.  A  man  never  feels  the  loss  of  things  which  it 
never  occurs  to  him  to  ask  for  ;  he  is  just  as  happy  without 

•  Cf.  Diogenes  Laertius,  Bk.  x.,  ch.  xxvii,,  pp.  127  and  149;  also 
Cicero  de  finibus,  i.,  13.  (36) 


PROPERTY,  OR  WHAT  A  MAN  HAS.  37 

them  ;  whilst  another,  who  may  have  a  hundred  times  as 
much,  feels  miserable  because  he  has  not  got  the  one  thing 
which  he  wants.  In  fact,  here  too,  every  man  has  an  horizon 
of  his  own,  and  he  will  expect  just  as  much  as  he  thinks  it  is 
possible  for  him  to  get.  If  an  object  within  his  horizon  looks 
as  though  he  could  confidently  reckon  on  getting  it,  he  is 
happy  ;  but  if  difficulties  come  in  the  way,  he  is  miserable. 
What  lies  beyond  his  horizon  has  no  effect  at  all  upon  him. 
So  it  is  that  the  vast  possessions  of  the  rich  do  not  agitate  the 
poor,  and  conversely,  that  a  wealthy  man  is  not  consoled  by 
all  his  wealth  for  the  failure  of  his  hopes.  Riches,  one  may 
say,  are  like  sea-water  ;  the  more  you  drink  the  thirstier  you 
become  ;  and  the  same  is  true  of  fame.  The  loss  of  wealth 
and  prosperity  leaves  a  man,  as  soon  as  the  first  pangs  of  grief 
are  over,  in  very  much  the  same  habitual  temper  as  before  ; 
and  the  reason  of  this  is,  that  as  soon  as  fate  diminishes  the 
amount  of  his  possessions,  he  himself  immediately  reduces  the 
amount  of  his  claims.  But  when  misfortune  comes  upon  us, 
to  reduce  the  amount  of  our  claims  is  just  what  is  most  painful ; 
once  that  we  have  done  so,  the  pain  becomes  less  and  less,  and 
is  felt  no  more  ;  like  an  old  wound  which  has  healed.  Con- 
versely, when  a  piece  of  good  fortune  befalls  us,  our  claims 
mount  higher  and  higher,  as  there  is  nothing  to  regulate  them  ; 
it  is  in  this  feeling  of  expansion  that  the  delight  of  it  lies.  But 
it  lasts  no  longer  than  the  process  itself,  and  when  the  expan- 
sion is  complete,  the  delight  ceases  ;  we  have  become  accus- 
tomed to  the  increase  in  our  claims,  and  consequently  indifferent 
to  the  amount  of  wealth  which  satisfies  them.  There  is  a 
passage  in  the  Odyssey^  illustrating  this  truth,  of  which  I  may 
quote  the  last  two  lines  : 

ToZof  ydp  vooQ  tarlv  knixdoviuv  uvdpuTruv 
O'lov  t<l>  ^uap  ayei  noT^p  dvSpCtv  re  deuv  re. 

— the  thoughts  of  man  that  dwells  on  the  earth  are  as  the 

day  granted  him  by  the  father  of  gods  and  men.     Discontent 

springs  from  a  constant  endeavor  to  increase  the  amount  of 

our  claims,  when  we  are  powerless  to  increase  the  amount 

which  will  satisfy  them. 

'  xviii.,  130-7 


:.Jt- 


38  THE   WISDOM    OF   LIFE. 

When  we  consider  how  full  of  needs  the  human  race  is,  how 
its  whole  existence  is  based  upon  them,  it  is  not  a  matter  for 
surprise  that  wealth  is  held  in  more  sincere  esteem,  nay,  in 
greater  honor,  than  anything  else  in  the  world  ;  nor  ought  we 
to  wonder  that  gain  is  made  the  only  goal  of  life,  and  every- 
thing that  does  not  lead  to  it  pushed  aside  or  thrown  over- 
board— philosophy,  for  instance,  by  those  who  profess  it. 
People  are  often  reproached  for  wishing  for  money  above  all 
things,  and  for  loving  it  more  than  anything  else  ;  but  it  is 
natural  and  even  inevitable  for  people  to  love  that  which,  like 
an  unwearied  Proteus,  is  always  ready  to  turn  itself  into  what- 
ever object  their  wandering  wishes  or  manifold  desires  may  for 
the  moment  fix  upon.  Everything  else  can  satisfy  only  one 
wish,  one  need  :  food  is  good  only  if  you  are  hungry  ;  wine,  if 
you  are  able  to  enjoy  it ;  drugs,  if  you  are  sick  ;  fur  for  the 
winter  ;  love  for  youth,  and  so  on.  These  are  all  only  rela- 
tively good,  ayaQa  Trpof  ri.  Money  alone  is  absolutely  good, 
because  it  is  not  only  a  concrete  satisfaction  of  one  need  in 
particular  ;  it  is  an  abstract  satisfaction  of  all. 

If  a  man  has  an  independent  fortune,  he  should  regard  it  as 
a  bulwark  against  the  many  evils  and  misfortunes  which  he 
may  encounter  ;  he  should  not  look  upon  it  as  giving  him  leave 
to  get  what  pleasure  he  can  out  of  the  world,  or  as  rendering 
it  incumbent  upon  him  to  spend  it  in  this  way.  People  who 
are  not  born  with  a  fortune,  but  end  by  making  a  large  one 
through  the  exercise  of  whatever  talents  they  possess,  almost 
always  come  to  think  that  their  talents  are  their  capital,  and 
that  the  money  they  have  gained  is  merely  the  interest  upon 
it  ;  they  do  not  lay  by  a  part  of  their  earnings  to  form  a  per- 
manent capital,  but  spend  their  money  much  as  they  have 
earned  it.  Accordingly,  they  often  fall  into  poverty  ;  their 
earnings  decrease,  or  come  to  an  end  altogether,  either  because 
their  talent  is  exhausted  by  becoming  antiquated, — as,  for 
mstance,  very  often  happens  in  the  case  of  fine  art  ;  or  else  it 
was  valid  only  under  a  special  conjunction  of  circumstances 
which  has  now  passed  away.  There  is  nothing  to  prevent 
those  who  live  on  the  common  labor  of  their  hands  from  treat- 
ing their  earnings  in  that  way  if  they  like  ;  because  their  kind 


PROPERTY,    OR   WHAT   A    MAN    HAS.  39 

of  skill  is  not  likely  to  disappear,  or,  if  it  does,  it  can  be  re- 
placed by  that  of  their  fellow-workmen  ;  moreover,  the  kind 
of  work  they  do  is  always  in  demand  ;  so  that  what  the  proverb 
says  is  quite  true,  a  useful  trade  is  a  mine  of  gold.  But  with 
artists  and  professionals  of  every  kind  the  case  is  quite  different, 
and  that  is  the  reason  why  they  are  well  paid.  They  ought 
to  build  up  a  capital  .out  of  their  earnings  ;  but  they  recklessly 
look  upon  them  as  merely  interest,  and  end  in  ruin.  On  the 
other  hand,  people  who  inherit  money  know,  at  least,  how  to 
distinguish  between  capital  and  interest,  and  most  of  them  try 
to  make  their  capital  secure  and  not  encroach  upon  it ;  nay,  if 
they  can,  they  put  by  at  least  an  eighth  of  their  interest  in  order 
to  meet  future  contingencies.  So  most  of  them  maintain  their 
position.  These  few  remarks  about  capital  and  interest  are 
not  applicable  to  commercial  life,  for  merchants  look  upon 
money  only  as  a  means  of  further  gain,  just  as  a  workman 
regards  his  tools  ;  so  even  if  their  capital  has  been  entirely  the 
result  of  their  own  efforts,  they  try  to  preserve  and  increase  it 
by  using  it.  Accordingly,  wealth  is  nowhere  so  much  at  home 
as  in  the  merchant  class. 

It  will  generally  be  found  that  those  who  know  what  it  is  to 
have  been  in  need  and  destitution  are  very  much  less  afraid  of 
it,  and  consequently  more  inclined  to  extravagance,  than  those 
who  know  poverty  only  by  hearsay.  People  who  have  been 
born  and  bred  in  good  circumstances  are  as  a  rule  much  more 
careful  about  the  future,  more  economical,  in  fact,  than  those 
who,  by  a  piece  of  good  luck,  have  suddenly  passed  from 
poverty  to  wealth.  This  looks  as  if  poverty  were  not  really 
such  a  very  wretched  thing  as  it  appears  from  a  distance.  The 
true  reason,  however,  is  rather  the  fact  that  the  man  who  has 
been  born  into  a  position  of  wealth  comes  to  look  upon  it  as 
something  without  which  he  could  no  more  live  than  he  could 
live  without  air  ;  he  guards  it  as  he  does  his  very  life  ;  and  so 
he  is  generally  a  lover  of  order,  prudent  and  economical.  But 
the  man  who  has  been  born  into  a  poor  position  looks  upon  it 
as  the  natural  one,  and  if  by  any  chance  he  comes  in  for  a 
fortune,  he  regards  it  as  a  superfluity,  something  to  be  enjoyed 
or  wasted,  because,  if  it  comes  to  an  end,  he  can  get  on  just 


40  THE  WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

as  well  as  before,  with  one  anxiety  the  less  ;  or,  as  Shakespeare 
says  in  Henry  VI.  / 

.     ,     .     .  the  adage  must  be  verified 
That  beggars  mounted  run  their  horse  to  death. 

But  it  should  be  said  that  people  of  this  kind  have  a  firm  and 
excessive  trust,  partly  in  fate,  partly  in  the  peculiar  means 
which  have  already  raised  them  out  of  need  and  poverty, — a 
trust  not  only  of  the  head,  but  of  the  heart  also  ;  and  so  they 
do  not,  like  the  man  born  rich,  look  upon  the  shallows  of 
poverty  as  bottomless,  but  console  themselves  with  the  thought 
that  once  they  have  touched  ground  again,  they  can  take 
another  upward  flight.  It  is  this  trait  in  human  character 
which  explains  the  fact  that  women  who  were  poor  before  their 
marriage  often  make  greater  claims,  and  are  more  extravagant, 
than  those  who  have  brought  their  husbands  a  rich  dowry  ; 
because,  as  a  rule,  rich  girls  bring  with  them,  not  only  a  for- 
tune, but  also  more  eagerness,  nay,  more  of  the  inherited 
instinct,  to  preserve  it,  than  poor  girls  do.  If  anyone  doubts 
the  truth  of  this,  and  thinks  that  it  is  just  the  opposite,  he  will 
find  authority  for  his  view  in  Ariosto's  first  Satire  ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  Dr.  Johnson  agrees  with  my  opinion.  A 
woman  of  fortune,  he  says,  being  used  to  the  handling  of  money  ^ 
spends  it  judiciously ;  but  a  woman  who  gets  the  cofnmand  of 
money  for  the  first  time  upon  her  marriage,  has  such  a  gusto  in 
spending  it,  that  she  throws  it  away  with  great  prof usio?i.*  And 
in  any  case  let  me  advise  anyone  who  marries  a  poor  girl  not 
to  leave  her  the  capital  but  only  the  interest,  and  to  take 
especial  care  that  she  has  not  the  management  of  the  children's 
fortune. 

I  do  not  by  any  means  think  that  I  am  touching  upon  a 
subject  which  is  not  worth  my  while  to  mention  when  I  recom- 
mend people  to  be  careful  to  preserve  what  they  have  earned 
or  inherited.  For  to  start  life  with  just  as  much  as  will  make 
one  independent,  that  is,  allow  one  to  live  comfortably  without 
having  to  work — even  if  one  has  only  just  enough  for  oneself, 
not  to  speak  of  a  family — is  an  advantage  which  cannot  be 

'  Part  III.,  Act  I,  So.  4. 
*  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson  :  ann  :  1776,  aetat :  67. 


PROPERTY,  OR  WHAT  A  MAN  HAS.  4I 

over-estimated  ;  for  it  means  exemption  and  immunity  from 
that  chronic  disease  of  penury,  which  fastens  on  the  life  of 
man  like  a  plague  ;  it  is  emancipation  from  that  forced  labor 
which  is  the  natural  lot  of  every  mortal.  Only  under  a  favor- 
able fate  like  this  can  a  man  be  said  to  be  born  free,  to  be,  in 
the  proper  sense  of  the  word,  sui  juris,  master  of  his  own  time 
and  powers,  and  able  to  say  every  morning.  This  day  is  my 
own.  And  just  for  the  same  reason  the  difference  between  the 
man  who  has  a  hundred  a  year  and  the  man  who  has  a  thou- 
sand, is  infinitely  smaller  than  the  difference  between  the 
former  and  a  man  who  has  nothing  at  all.  But  inherited  wealth 
reaches  its  utmost  value  when  it  falls  to  the  individual  endowed 
with  mental  powers  of  a  high  order,  who  is  resolved  to  pursue 
a  line  of  life  not  compatible  with  the  making  of  money  ;  for  he 
is  then  doubly  endowed  by  fate  and  can  live  for  his  genius  ; 
and  he  will  pay  his  debt  to  mankind  a  hundred  times,  by 
achieving  what  no  other  could  achieve,  by  producing  some 
work  which  contributes  to  the  general  good,  and  redounds  to 
the  honor  of  humanity  at  large.  Another,  again,  may  use  his 
wealth  to  further  philanthropic  schemes,  and  make  himself  well- 
deserving  of  his  fellowmen.  But  a  man  who  does  none  of 
these  things,  who  does  not  even  try  to  do  them,  who  never 
attempts  to  learn  the  rudiments  of  any  branch  of  knowledge  so 
that  he  may  at  least  do  what  he  can  towards  promoting  it — 
such  a  one,  born  as  he  is  into  riches,  is  a  mere  idler  and  thief 
of  time,  a  contemptible  fellow.  He  will  not  even  be  happy, 
because,  in  his  ease,  exemption  from  need  delivers  him  up  to 
the  other  extreme  of  human  suffering,  boredom,  which  is  such 
martyrdom  to  him,  that  he  would  have  been  better  off  if  pov- 
erty had  given  him  something  to  do.  And  as  he  is  bored  he 
is  apt  to  be  extravagant,  and  so  lose  the  advantage  of  which 
he  showed  himself  unworthy.  Countless  numbers  of  people 
find  themselves  in  want,  simply  because,  when  they  had  money, 
they  spent  it  only  to  get  momentary  relief  from  the  feeling  of 
boredom  which  oppressed  them. 

It  is  quite  another  matter  if  one's  object  is  success  in  pohtical 
life,  where  favor,  friends  and  connections  are  all -important,  in 
order  to  mount  by  their  aid  step  by  step  on  the  ladder  of  pro- 


ii*. 


I  ' 


42  THE   WISDOM   OF    LIFE. 

motion,  and  perhaps  gain  the  topmost  rung.  In  this  kind  of 
life,  it  is  much  better  to  be  cast  upon  the  world  without  a 
penny  ;  and  if  the  aspirant  is  not  of  noble  family,  but  is  a  man 
of  some  talent,  it  will  redound  to  his  advantage  to  be  an 
absolute  pauper.  For  what  every  one  most  aims  at  in  ordinary 
contact  with  his  fellows  is  to  prove  them  inferior  to  himself ; 
and  how  much  more  is  this  the  case  in  politics.  Now,  it  is 
only  an  absolute  pauper  who  has  such  a  thorough  conviction 
of  his  own  complete,  profound  and  positive  inferiority  from 
every  point  of  view,  of  his  own  utter  insignificance  and  worth- 
lessness,  that  he  can  take  his  place  quietly  in  the  political 
machine.*  He  is  the  only  one  who  can  keep  on  bowing  low 
enough,  and  even  go  right  down  upon  his  face  if  necessary  ; 
he  alone  can  submit  to  everything  and  laugh  at  it ;  he  alone 
knows  the  entire  worthlessness  of  merit  ;  he  alone  uses  his 
loudest  voice  and  his  boldest  type  whenever  he  has  to  speak 
or  write  of  those  who  are  placed  over  his  head,  or  occupy  any 
position  of  influence  ;  and  if  they  do  a  little  scribbling,  he  is 
ready  to  applaud  it  as  a  masterwork.  He  alone  understands 
how  to  beg,  and  so  betimes,  when  he  is  hardly  out  of  his  boy- 
hood, he  becomes  a  high  priest  of  that  hidden  mystery  which 
Goethe  brings  to  light ; — 

Uber's  Niedertrachtige 

Niemand  sich  beklage  : 

Denn  es  ist  das  Machtige 

Was  man  dir  auch  sage  : 

— it  is  no  use  to  complain  of  low  aims  ;  for,  whatever  people 
may  say,  they  rule  the  world. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  man  who  is  bom  with  enough  to 
live  upon  is  generally  of  a  somewhat  independent  turn  of  mind; 
he  is  accustomed  to  keep  his  head  up  ;  he  has  not  learned  all 
the  arts  of  the  beggar  ;  perhaps  he  even  presumes  a  little  upon 
the  possession  ol  talents  which,  as  he  ought  to  know,  can 

'  Translator's  Note. — Schopenhauer  is  probably  here  making  one 
of  his  many  virulent  attacks  upon  Hegel ;  in  this  case  on  account  of 
what  he  thought  to  be  the  philosopher's  abject  servility  to  the  govern- 
ment of  his  day.  Though  the  Hegelian  system  has  been  the  fruitful 
mother  of  many  liberal  ideas,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Hegel's 
influence,  in  his  own  lifetime,  was  an  eflfective  support  of  Prussian 
bureaucracy. 


PROPERTY,  OR  WHAT  A  MAN  HAS.  43 

never  compete  with  cringingf  mediocrity  ;  in  the  long  run  he 
comes  to  recognize  the  inferiority  of  those  who  are  placed 
over  his  head,  and  when  they  try  to  put  insults  upon  him,  he 
becomes  refractory  and  shy.  This  is  not  the  way  to  get  on  in 
the  world.  Nay,  such  a  man  may  at  least  incline  to  the  opinion 
freely  expressed  by  Voltaire  :  We  have  only  two  days  to  live  ; 
it  is  not  worth  Our  while  to  spend  them  in  cringing  to  contemptible 
rascals.  But  alas  !  let  me  observe  by  the  way,  that  contempt- 
ible rascal  is  an  attribute  which  may  be  predicated  of  an  abom- 
inable number  of  people.  What  Juvenal  says — it  is  difificult  to 
rise  if  your  poverty  is  greater  than  your  talent — 

Hand  facile  emergunt  quorum,  virtutibus  obstat 
Res  angusta  domi — 

is  more  applicable  to  a  career  of  art  and  literature  than  to 
political  and  social  ambition. 

Wife  and  children  I  have  not  reckoned  amongst  a  man's 
possessions  :  he  is  rather  in  their  possession.  It  would  be 
easier  to  include  friends  under  that  head  ;  but  a  man's  friends 
belong  to  him  not  a  whit  more  than  he  belongs  to  them. 


B 


CHAP'^ER   IV. 

POSITION,    OR   A   man's   PLACE   IN  THE   ESTIMATION 

OF    OTHERS. 

Section  i. — Reputation. 

Y  a  peculiar  weakness  of  human  nature,  people  generally 
think  too  much  about  the  opinion  which  others  form  of 
them  ;  although  the  slightest  reflection  will  show  that  this 
opinion,  whatever  it  may  be,  is  not  in  itself  essential  to  happi- 
ness. Therefore  it  is  hard  to  understand  why  everybody  feels 
so  very  pleased  when  he  sees  that  other  people  have  a  good 
opinion  of  him,  or  say  anything  flattering  to  his  vanity.  If 
you  stroke  a  cat,  it  will  purr  ;  and,  as  inevitably,  if  you  praise 
a  man,  a  sweet  expression  of  delight  will  appear  on  his  foce  ; 
and  even  though  the  praise  is  a  palpable  lie,  it  will  be  welcome, 
if  the  matter  is  one  on  which  he  prides  himself  If  only  other 
people  will  applaud  him,  a  man  may  console  himself  for  down- 
right misfortune  or  for  the  pittance  he  gets  from  the  two 
sources  of  human  happiness  already  discussed  :  and  conversely, 
it  is  astonishing  how  infallibly  a  man  will  be  annoyed,  and  in 
some  cases  deeply  pained,  by  any  wrong  done  to  his  feeling 
of  self-importance,  whatever  be  the  nature,  degree,  or  circum- 
stances of  the  injury,  or  by  any  depreciation,  slight,  or  dis- 
regard. 

If  the  feeling  of  honor  rests  upon  this  peculiarity  of  human 
nature,  it  may  have  a  very  salutary  effect  upon  the  welfare  of 
a  great  many  people,  as  a  substitute  for  morality  ;  but  upon 
their  happiness,  more  especially  upon  that  peace  of  mind  and 
independence  which  are  so  essential  to  happiness,  its  effect  will 
be  disturbing  and  prejudicial  rather  than  salutary.  Therefore 
it  is  advisable,  from  our  point  of  view,  to  set  limits  to  this 

(44) 


REPUTATION.  45 

weakness,  and  duly  to  consider  and  rightly  to  estimate  the 
relative  value  of  advantages,  and  thus  temper,  as  far  as  possible, 
this  great  susceptibility  to  other  people's  opinion,  whether  the 
opinion  be  one  flattering  to  our  vanity,  or  whether  it  causes 
us  pain  ;  for  in  either  case  it  is  the  same  feeling  which  is 
touched.  Otherwise,  a  man  is  the  slave  of  what  other  people 
are  pleased  to  think, — and  how  little  it  requires  to  disconcert 
or  soothe  the  mind  that  is  greedy  of  praise  : 

Sic  leve,  sic  parvutn  est,  anitnunt  quod  laudis  avarutn 
Submit  ac  reficit.^ 

Therefore  it  will  very  much  conduce  to  our  happiness  if  we 
duly  compare  the  value  of  what  a  man  is  in  and  for  himself 
with  what  he  is  in  the  eyes  of  others.  Under  the  former  comes 
everything  that  fills  up  the  span  of  our  existence  and  makes  it 
what  it  is,  in  short,  all  the  advantages  already  considered  and 
summed  up  under  the  heads  of  personality  and  property  ;  and 
the  sphere  in  which  all  this  takes  place  is  the  man's  own  con- 
sciousness. On  the  other  hand,  the  sphere  of  what  we  are  for 
other  people  is  their  consciousness,  not  ours  ;  it  is  the  kind 
of  figure  we  make  in  their  eyes,  together  with  the  thoughts 
which  this  arouses.*  But  this  is  something  which  has  no  direct 
and  immediate  existence  for  us,  but  can  affect  us  only  mediately 
and  indirectly,  so  far,  that  is,  as  other  people's  behavior 
towards  us  is  directed  by  it  ;  and  even  then  it  ought  to  affect 
us  only  in  so  far  as  it  can  move  us  to  modify  what  we  are  in 
and  for  ourselves.  Apart  from  this,  what  goes  on  in  other 
people's  consciousness  is,  as  such,  a  matter  of  indifference  to 
us  ;  and  in  time  we  get  really  indifferent  to  it,  when  we  come 
to  see  how  superficial  and  futile  are  most  people's  thoughts, 
how  narrow  their  ideas,  how  mean  their  sentiments,  how  per- 
verse their  opinions,  and  how  much  of  error  there  is  in  most 
of  them  ;  when  we  learn  by  experience  with  what  depreciation 
a  man  will  speak  of  his  fellow,  when  he  is  not  obliged  to  fear 

1  Horace,  Epist :  II.,  i,  i8o. 
'  Let  me  remark  that  people  in  the  highest  positions  in  life,  with 
all  their  brilliance,  pomp,  display,  magnificence  and  general  show, 
may  well  say : — Our  happiness  lies  entirely  outside  us,  for  it  exists 
only  in  the  heads  of  others. 


46  THE    WISDOM    OF    LIFE. 

him,  or  thinks  that  what  he  says  will  not  come  to  his  ears. 
And  if  ever  we  have  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  how  the 
greatest  of  men  will  meet  with  nothing  but  slight  from  half- 
a-dozen  blockheads,  we  shall  understand  that  to  lay  great 
value  upon  what  other  people  say  is  to  pay  them  too  much 
honor. 

At  all  events,  a  man  is  in  a  very  bad  way,  who  finds  no 
source  of  happiness  in  the  first  two  classes  of  blessings  already 
treated  of,  but  has  to  seek  it  in  the  third,  in  other  words,  not 
in  what  he  is  in  himself,  but  in  what  he  is  in  the  opinion  of 
others.  For,  after  all,  the  foundation  of  our  whole  nature, 
and,  therefore,  of  our  happiness,  is  our  physique,  and  the  most 
essential  factor  in  happiness  is  health,  and,  next  in  importance 
after  health,  the  ability  to  maintain  ourselves  in  independence 
and  freedom  from  care.  There  can  be  no  competition  or  com- 
pensation between  these  essential  factors  on  the  one  side,  and 
honor,  pomp,  rank  and  reputation  on  the  other,  however  much 
value  we  may  set  upon  the  latter.  No  one  would  hesitate  to 
sacrifice  the  latter  for  the  former,  if  it  were  necessary.  We 
should  add  very  much  to  our  happiness  by  a  timely  recogni- 
tion of  the  simple  truth  that  every  man's  chief  and  real  exist- 
ence is  in  his  own  skin,  and  not  in  other  people's  opinions; 
and,  consequently,  that  the  actual  conditions  of  our  personal 
life, — health,  temperament,  capacity,  income,  wife,  children, 
friends,  home,  are  a  hundred  times  more  important  for  our 
happiness  than  what  other  people  are  pleased  to  think  of  us  : 
otherwise  we  shall  be  miserable.  And  if  people  insist  that 
honor  is  dearer  than  life  itself,  what  they  really  mean  is  that 
existence  and  well-being  are  as  nothing  compared  with  other 
people's  opinions.  Of  course,  this  may  be  only  an  exaggerated 
way  of  stating  the  prosaic  truth  that  reputation,  that  is,  the 
opinion  others  have  of  us,  is  indispensable  if  we  are  to  make 
any  progress  in  the  world  ;  but  I  shall  come  back  to  that 
presentiy.  When  we  see  that  almost  everything  men  devote 
their  lives  to  attain,  sparing  no  effort  and  encountering  a  thou- 
sand toils  and  dangers  in  the  process,  has,  in  the  end,  no  further 
object  than  to  raise  themselves  in  the  estimation  of  others ; 
■when  we  see  that  not  only  offices,  titles,  decorations,  but  also 


REPUTATION.  47 

wealth,  nay,  even  knowledge  ^  and  art,  are  striven  for  only  to 
obtain,  as  the  ultimate  goal  of  all  effort,  greater  respect  from 
one's  fellowmen, — is  not  this  a  lamentable  proof  of  the  extent 
to  which  human  folly  can  go  ?  To  set  much  too  high  a  value 
on  other  people's  opinion  is  a  common  error  everywhere  ;  an 
error,  it  may  be,  rooted  in  human  nature  itself,  or  the  result 
of  civilization  and  social  arrangements  generally  ;  but,  what- 
ever its  source,  it  exercises  a  very  immoderate  influence  on  all 
we  do,  and  is  very  prejudicial  to  our  happiness.  We  can  trace 
it  from  a  timorous  and  slavish  regard  for  what  other  people  will 
say,  up  to  the  feeling  which  made  Virginius  plunge  the  dagger 
into  his  daughter's  heart,  or  induces  many  a  man  to  sacrifice 
quiet,  riches,  health  and  even  life  itself,  for  posthumous  glory. 
Undoubtedly  this  feeling  is  a  very  convenient  instrument  in  the 
hands  of  those  who  have  the  control  or  direction  of  their 
fellowmen  ;  and  accordingly  we  find  that  in  every  scheme  for 
training  up  humanity  in  the  way  it  should  go,  the  maintenance 
and  strengthening  of  the  feeling  of  honor  occupies  an  important 
place.  But  it  is  quite  a  different  matter  in  its  effect  on  human 
happiness,  of  which  it  is  here  our  object  to  treat ;  and  we 
should  rather  be  careful  to  dissuade  people  from  setting  too 
much  store  by  what  others  think  of  them.  Daily  experience 
shows  us,  however,  that  this  is  just  the  mistake  people  persist 
in  making  ;  most  men  set  the  utmost  value  precisely  on  what 
other  people  think,  and  are  more  concerned  about  it  than 
about  what  goes  on  in  their  own  consciousness,  which  is  the 
thing  most  immediately  and  directly  present  to  them.  They 
reverse  the  natural  order, — regarding  the  opinions  of  others  as 
real  existence  and  their  own  consciousness  as  something 
shadowy  ;  making  the  derivative  and  secondary  into  the  prin- 
cipal, and  considering  the  picture  they  present  to  the  world  of 
more  importance  than  their  own  selves.  By  thus  trying  to  get 
a  direct  and  immediate  result  out  of  what  has  no  really  direct 
or  immediate  existence,  they  fall  into  the  kind  of  folly  which  is 
called  vanity — the  appropriate  term  for  that  which  has  no  solid 

•  Scire  tuum  nihil  est  nisi  te  scire  hoc  sciat  alter,  (Persius  i.  27) — 
knowledge  is  no  use  unless  others  know  that  you  have  it. 


48  THE   WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

or  intrinsic  value.     Like  a  miser,  such  people  forget  the  end 
in  their  eagerness  to  obtain  the  means. 

The  truth  is  that  the  value  we  set  upon  the  opinion  of  others, 
and  our  constant  endeavor  in  respect  of  it,  are  each  quite  out 
of  proportion  to  any  result  we  may  reasonably  hope  to  attain ; 
SO  that  this  attention  to  other  people's  attitude  may  be  regarded 
as  a  kind  of  universal  mania  which  every  one  inherits.  In  all 
we  do,  almost  the  first  thing  we  think  about  is,  what  will  peo- 
ple say  ;  and  nearly  half  the  troubles  and  bothers  of  life  may 
be  traced  to  our  anxiety  on  this  score  ;  it  is  the  anxiety  which 
is  at  the  bottom  of  all  that  feeling  of  self-importance,  which  is 
so  often  mortified  because  it  is  so  very  morbidly  sensitive.  It 
is  solicitude  about  what  others  will  say  that  underlies  all  our 
vanity  and  pretension,  yes,  and  all  our  show  and  swagger  too. 
Without  it,  there  would  not  be  a  tenth  part  of  the  luxury  which 
exists.  Pride  in  every  form,  point  d' honneur  and  punctilio, 
however  varied  their  kind  or  sphere,  are  at  bottom  nothing 
but  this — anxiety  about  what  others  will  say — and  what  sacri- 
fices it  often  costs  I  One  can  see  it  even  in  a  child  ;  and  though 
it  exists  at  every  period  of  life,  it  is  strongest  in  age  ;  because, 
when  the  capacity  for  sensual  pleasure  fails,  vanity  and  pride 
have  only  avarice  to  share  their  dominion.  Frenchmen,  per- 
haps, afford  the  best  example  of  this  feeling,  and  amongst 
them  it  is  a  regular  epidemic,  appearing  sometimes  in  the  most 
absurd  ambition,  or  in  a  ridiculous  kind  of  national  vanity  and 
the  most  shameless  boasting.  However,  they  frustrate  their 
own  aims,  for  other  people  make  fun  of  them  and  call  them  la  . 
grande  nation. 

By  way  of  specially  illustrating  this  perverse  and  exuberant 
respect  for  other  people's  opinion,  let  me  take  a  passage  from 
the  Times  of  March  31st,  1846,  giving  a  detailed  account  of 
the  execution  of  one  Thomas  Wix,  an  apprentice  who,  from 
motives  of  vengeance,  had  murdered  his  master.  Here  we 
have  very  unusual  circumstances  and  an  extraordinary  char- 
acter, though  one  very  suitable  for  our  purpose  ;  and  these 
combine  to  give  a  striking  picture  of  this  folly,  which  is  so 
deeply  rooted  in  human  nature,  and  allow  us  to  form  an  ac- 


REPUTATION.  49 

curate  notion  of  the  extent  to  which  it  will  go.  On  the  morning 
of  the  execution,  says  the  report,  /^  rev.  ordinary  was  early 
in  attendance  upon  him,  but  Wix,  beyond  a  quiet  demeanor, 
betrayed  no  interest  in  his  ministrations,  appearing  to  feel 
anxious  07ily  to  acquit  himrSelf  ' '  bravely ' '  before  the  spectators 
of  his  ignominious  end.  .  ...  In  the  procession  Wix  fell 
into  his  proper  place  with  alacrity,  and,  as  he  entered  the  Chapel- 
yard,  remarked,  sufficiently  loud  to  be  heard  by  several  persons 
near  him,  ^''Now,  then,  as  Dr.  Dodd  said,  I  shall  soon  know 
the  grand  secret.^ ^  On  reaching  the  scaffold,  the  miserable 
wretch  mounted  the  drop  without  the  slightest  assistance,  and 
when  he  got  to  the  centre,  he  bowed  to  the  spectators  twice,  a  pro- 
ceeding which  called  forth  a  tremendous  cheer  from  the  degraded 
crowd  beneath. 

This  is  an  admirable  example  of  the  way  in  which  a  man, 
with  death  in  the  most  dreadful  form  before  his  very  eyes,  and 
eternity  beyond  it,  will  care  for  nothing  but  the  impression  he 
makes  upon  a  crowd  of  gapers,  and  the  opinion  he  leaves 
behind  him  in  their  heads.  There  was  much  the  same  kind  of 
thing  in  the  case  of  Lecompte,  who  was  executed  at  Frankfurt, 
also  in  1846,  for  an  attempt  on  the  king's  life.  At  the  trial 
he  was  very  much  annoyed  that  he  was  not  allowed  to  appear, 
in  decent  attire,  before  the  Upper  House  ;  and  on  the  day  of 
the  execution  it  was  a  special  grief  to  him  that  he  was  not  per- 
mitted to  shave.  It  is  not  only  in  recent  times  that  this  kind 
of  thing  has  been  known  to  happen.  Mateo  Aleman  tells  us, 
in  the  Introduction  to  his  celebrated  romance,  fuzman  de 
-AlfaracJie,  that  many  infatuated  criminals,  instead  of  devoting 
their  last  hours  to  the  welfare  of  their  souls,  as  they  ought  to 
have  done,  neglect  this  duty  for  the  purpose  of  preparing 
and  committing  to  memory  a  speech  to  be  made  from  the 
scaffold. 

I  take  these  extreme  cases  as  being  the  best  illustrations  of 
what  I  mean  ;  for  they  give  us  a  magnified  reflection  of  our 
own  nature.  The  anxieties  of  all  of  us,  our  worries,  vexations, 
bothers,  troubles,  uneasy  apprehensions  and  strenuous  efforts 
are  due,  in  perhaps  the  large  majority  of  instances,  to  what 
Other  people  will  say  ;  and  we  are  just  as  foolish  in  this  respect 


50  THE  WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

as  those  miserable  criminals.     Envy  and  hatred  are  very  often 
traceable  to  a  similar  source. 

Now,  it  is  obvious  that  happiness,  which  consists  for  the 
most  part  in  peace  of  mind  and  contentment,  would  be  served 
by  nothing  so  much  as  by  reducing  this  impulse  of  human 
nature  within  reasonable  limits, — which  would  perhaps  make 
it  one  fiftieth  part  of  what  it  is  now.  By  doing  so,  we  should 
get  rid  of  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  which  is  always  causing  us  pain. 
But  it  is  a  very  difficult  task,  because  the  impulse  in  question 
is  a  natural  and  innate  perversity  of  human  nature.  Tacitus 
says.  The  lust  of  fame  is  the  last  that  a  wise  man  shakes  off} 
The  only  way  of  putting  an  end  to  this  universal  folly  is  to  see 
clearly  that  it  is  a  folly  ;  and  this  may  be  done  by  recognizing 
the  fact  that  most  of  the  opinions  in  men's  heads  are  apt  to  be 
false,  perverse,  erroneous  and  absurd,  and  so  in  themselves 
unworthy  of  any  attention  ;  further,  that  other  people's  opinions 
can  have  very  little  real  and  positive  influence  upon  us  in 
most  of  the  circumstances  and  affairs  of  life.  Again,  this 
opinion  is  generally  of  such  an  unfavorable  character  that  it 
would  worry  a  man  to  death  to  hear  everything  that  was  said 
of  him,  or  the  tone  in  which  he  was  spoken  of.  And  finally, 
among  other  things,  we  should  be  clear  about  the  fact  that 
honor  itself  has  no  really  direct,  but  only  an  indirect,  value. 
If  people  were  generally  converted  from  this  universal  folly, 
the  result  would  be  such  an  addition  to  our  piece  of  mind  and 
cheerfulness  as  at  present  seems  inconceivable  ;  people  would 
present  a  firmer  and  more  confident  front  to  the  world,  and 
generally  behave  with  less  embarrassment  and  restraint.  It  is 
observable  that  a  retired  mode  of  life  has  an  exceedingly  bene- 
ficial influence  on  our  peace  of  mind,  and  this  is  mainly  because 
we  thus  escape  having  to  live  constantly  in  the  sight  of  others, 
and  pay  everlasting  regard  to  their  casual  opinions  ;  in  a  word, 
we  are  able  to  return  upon  ourselves.  At  the  same  time  a 
good  deal  of  positive  misfortune  might  be  avoided,  which  we 
are  now  drawn  into  by  striving  after  shadows,  or,  to  speak 
more  correctly,  by  indulging  a  mischievous  piece  of  folly ; 
and  we  should  consequently  have  more  attention  to  give  to 

•  Hist.  iv..  6. 


PRIDE,  51 

solid  realities  and  enjoy  them  with  less  interruption  than  at 
present.    But  ;r«^eTo  rd  Kokd. — what  is  worth  doing  is  hard  to  do. 

Section  2. — Pride. 

The  folly  of  our  nature  which  we  are  discussing  puts  forth 
three  shoots,  ambition,  vanity  and  pride.  The  difference 
between  the  last  two  is  this  :  pride  is  an  established  conviction 
of  one's  own  paramount  worth  in  some  particular  respect ; 
while  vanity  is  the  desire  of  rousing  such  a  conviction  in  others, 
and  it  is  generally  accompanied  by  the  secret  hope  of  ultimately 
coming  to  the  same  conviction  oneself.  Pride  worksyV^w  with- 
in ;  it  is  the  dire6l  appreciation  of  oneself.  Vanity  is  the  desire 
to  arrive  at  this  appreciation  indirectly, /rtw?  without.  So  we 
find  that  vain  people  are  talkative,  proud,  and  taciturn.  But 
the  vain  person  ought  to  be  aware  that  the  good  opinion  of 
others,  which  he  strives  for,  may  be  obtained  much  more 
easily  and  certainly  by  persistent  silence  than  by  speech,  even 
though  he  has  very  good  things  to  say.  Anyone  who  wishes 
to  affect  pride  is  not  therefore  a  proud  man  ;  but  he  will  soon 
have  to  drop  this,  as  every  other,  assumed  character. 

It  is  only  a  firm,  unshakeable  conviction  of  pre-eminent  worth 
and  special  value  which  makes  a  man  proud  in  the  true  sense 
of  the  word, — a  conviction  which  may,  no  doubt,  be  a  mistaken 
one  or  rest  on  advantages  which  are  of  an  adventitious  and 
conventional  character  :  still  pride  is  not  the  less  pride  for  all 
that,  so  long  as  it  be  present  in  real  earnest.  And  since  pride 
is  thus  rooted  in  conviction,  it  resembles  every  other  form  of 
knowledge  in  not  being  within  our  own  arbitrament.  Pride's 
worst  foe, — I  mean  its  greatest  obstacle, — is  vanity,  which 
courts  the  applause  of  the  world  in  order  to  gain  the  necessary 
foundation  for  a  high  opinion  of  one's  own  worth,  whilst  pride 
is  based  upon  a  pre-existing  conviction  of  it. 

It  is  quite  true  that  pride  is  something  which  is  generally 
found  fault  with,  and  cried  down  ;  but  usually,  I  imagine,  by 
those  who  have  nothing  upon  which  they  can  pride  themselves. 
In  view  of  the  impudence  and  foolhardiness  of  most  people, 
anyone  who  possesses  any  kind  of  superiority  or  merit  will  do 


M 
^ 


U,  OF  ILL  LIB. 


52  THE  WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

well  to  keep  his  eyes  fixed  on  it,  if  he  does  not  want  it  to  be 
entirely  forgotten  ;  for  if  a  man  is  good-natured  enough  to 
ignore  his  own  privileges,  and  hob-nob  with  the  generality  of 
other  people,  as  if  he  were  quite  on  their  level,  they  will  be 
sure  to  treat  him,  frankly  and  candidly,  as  one  of  themselves. 
This  is  a  piece  of  advice  I  would  specially  offer  to  those  whose 
superiority  is  of  the  highest  kind — real  superiority,  I  mean,  of 
a  purely  personal  nature — which  cannot,  like  orders  and  titles, 
appeal  to  the  eye  or  ear  at  every  moment ;  as,  otherwise,  they 
will  find  that  familiarity  breeds  contempt,  or,  as  the  Romans 
used  to  say,  S7is  Minervam.  Joke  with  a  slave,  and  he* II  soon 
show  his  heels,  is  an  excellent  Arabian  proverb  ;  nor  ought  we 
to  despise  what  Horace  says, 

Sume  superbiam 
Qucesitam  meritis. 

— usurp  the  fame  you  have  deserved.  No  doubt,  when  mod- 
esty was  made  a  virtue,  it  was  a  very  advantageous  thing  for 
the  fools  ;  for  everybody  is  expected  to  speak  of  himself  as  if 
he  were  one.  This  is  leveling  down  indeed  ;  for  it  comes  to 
look  as  if  there  were  nothing  but  fools  in  the  world. 

The  cheapest  sort  of  pride  is  national  pride  ;  for  if  a  man  is 
proud  of  his  own  nation,  it  argues  that  he  has  no  qualities  of 
his  own  of  which  he  can  be  proud  ;  otherwise  he  would  not 
have  recourse  to  those  which  he  shares  with  so  many  millions 
of  his  fellowmen.  The  man  who  is  endowed  with  important 
personal  qualities  will  be  only  too  ready  to  see  clearly  in  what 
respects  his  own  nation  falls  short,  since  their  failings  will  be 
constantly  before  his  eyes.  But  every  miserable  fool  who  has 
nothing  at  all  of  which  he  can  be  proud  adopts,  as  a  last  re- 
source, pride  in  the  nation  to  which  he  belongs  ;  he  is  ready 
and  glad  to  defend  all  its  faults  and  follies  tooth  and  nail,  thus 
reimbursing  himself  for  his  own  inferiority.  For  example,  if 
you  speak  of  the  stupid  and  degrading  bigotry  of  the  English 
nation  with  the  contempt  it  deserves,  you  will  hardly  find  one 
Englishman  in  fifty  to  agree  with  you  ;  but  if  there  should  be 
one,  he  will  generally  happen  to  be  an  intelligent  man. 

The  Germans  have  no  national  pride,  wliich  shows  how 


RANK.  53 

honest  they  are,  as  everybody  knows  !  and  how  dishonest  are 
those  who,  by  a  piece  of  ridiculous  affectation,  pretend  that 
they  are  proud  of  their  country — the  Deutsche  Bruder  and  the 
demagogues  who  flatter  the  mob  in  order  to  mislead  it.  I  have 
heard  it  said  that  gunpowder  was  invented  by  a  German.  I 
doubt  it.  Lichtenberg  asks,  Why  is  it  that  a  man  who  is  not 
a  German  does  not  care  about  pretending  that  he  is  one ;  and 
that  if  he  makes  any  pretence  at  all,  it  is  to  be  a  Frenchman  or 
an  Englishman?^ 

However  that  may  be,  individuality  is  a  far  more  important 
thing  than  nationality,  and  in  any  given  man  deserves  a  thou- 
sand-fold more  consideration.  And  since  you  cannot  speak 
of  national  character  without  referring  to  large  masses  of  peo- 
ple, it  is  impossible  to  be  loud  in  your  praises  and  at  the  same 
time  honest.  National  character  is  only  another  name  for  the 
particular  form  which  the  littleness,  perversity  and  baseness  of 
mankind  take  in  every  country.  If  we  become  disgusted  with 
one,  we  praise  another,  until  we  get  disgusted  with  this  too. 
Every  nation  mocks  at  other  nations,  and  all  are  right. 

The  contents  of  this  chapter,  which  treats,  as  I  have  said,  of 
what  we  represent  in  the  world,  or  what  we  are  in  the  eyes  of 
others,  may  be  further  distributed  under  three  heads  :  honor, 
rank  and  fame. 

Section  j. — Rank. 

Let  us  take  rank  first,  as  it  may  be  dismissed  in  a  few  words, 
although  it  plays  an  important  part  in  the  eyes  of  the  masses 
and  of  the  philistines,  and  is  a  most  useful  wheel  in  the  ma- 
chinery of  the  State. 

It  has  a  purely  conventional  value.  Strictly  speaking,  it  is 
a  sham  ;  its  method  is  to  exact  an  artificial  respect,  and,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  whole  thing  is  a  mere  farce. 

Orders,  it  may  be  said,  are  bills  of  exchange  drawn  on  public 
opinion,  and  the  measure  of  their  value  is  the  credit  of  the 

'  Translator's  Note. — It  should  be  remembered  that  these  remarks 
were  written  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  present  century,  and  that  a 
German  philosopher  now-a-days,  even  though  he  were  as  apt  to  say 
bitter  things  as  Schopenhauer,  could  hardly  write  in  a  similar  strain. 


54  THE  WISDOM  OF   LIFE. 

drawer.  Of  course,  as  a  substitute  for  pensions,  they  save  the 
State  a  good  deal  of  money  ;  and,  besides,  they  serve  a  very 
useful  purpose,  if  they  are  distributed  with  discrimination  and 
judgment.  For  people  in  general  have  eyes  and  ears,  it  is 
true  ;  but  not  much  else,  very  little  judgment  indeed,  or  even 
memory.  There  are  many  services  to  the  State  quite  beyond 
the  range  of  their  understanding  ;  others,  again,  are  appre- 
ciated and  made  much  of  for  a  time,  and  then  soon  forgotten. 
It  seems  to  me,  therefore,  very  proper,  that  a  cross  or  a  star 
should  proclaim  to  the  mass  of  people  always  and  everywhere. 
This  man  is  not  like  you  ;  he  has  done  something.  But  orders 
lose  their  value  when  they  are  distributed  unjustly,  or  without 
due  selection,  or  in  too  great  numbers  :  a  prince  should  be  as 
careful  in  conferring  them  as  a  man  of  business  is  in  signing  a 
bill.  It  is  a  pleonasm  to  inscribe  on  any  oxA^x  for  distinguished 
service ;  for  every  order  ought  to  be  for  distinguished  service. 
That  stands  to  reason. 

Section  4. — Honor. 

Honor  is  a  much  larger  question  than  rank,  and  more 
difficult  to  discuss.     Let  us  begin  by  trying  to  define  it. 

If  I  were  to  say  Honor  is  external  conscience,  and  conscience 
is  inward  honor,  no  doubt  a  good  many  people  would  assent ; 
but  there  would  be  more  show  than  reality  about  such  a  de- 
finition, and  it  would  hardly  go  to  the  root  of  the  matter.  I 
prefer  to  say.  Honor  is,  on  its  objective  side,  other  people' s 
opinion  of  what  we  are  worth ;  on  its  subjective  side,  it  is  the 
respect  we  pay  to  this  opinion.  From  the  latter  point  of  view, 
to  be  a  m.an  of  honor  is  to  exercise  what  is  often  a  very  whole- 
some, but  by  no  means  a  purely  moral,  influence. 

The  feelings  of  honor  and  shame  exist  in  every  man  who  is 
not  utterly  depraved,  and  honor  is  everywhere  recognized  as 
something  particularly  valuable.  The  reason  of  this  is  as 
follows.  By  and  in  himself  a  man  can  accomplish  very  little  ; 
he  is  like  Robinson  Crusoe  on  a  desert  island.  It  is  only  in 
society  that  a  man's  powers  can  be  called  into  full  activity. 
He  very  soon  finds  this  out  when  his  consciousness  begins  to 
develop,  and  there  arises  in  him  the  desire  to  be  looked  upon 


HONOR.  55 

as  a  useful  member  of  society,  as  one,  that  is,  who  is  capable 
of  playing  his  part  as  a  vs\2Si— pro  parte  virili — thereby  acquir- 
ing a  right  to  the  benefits  of  social  life.  Now,  to  be  a  useful 
member  of  society,  one  must  do  two  things  :  firstly,  what 
everyone  is  expected  to  do  everywhere  ;  and,  secondly,  what 
one's  own  particular  position  in  the  world  demands  and 
requires. 

But  a  man  soon  discovers  that  everything  depends  upon  his 
being  useful,  not  in  his  own  opinion,  but  in  the  opinion  of 
others ;  and  so  he  tries  his  best  to  make  that  favorable  im- 
pression upon  the  world,  to  which  he  attaches  such  a  high 
value.  Hence,  this  primitive  and  innate  characteristic  of  human 
nature,  which  is  called  the  feeling  of  honor,  or,  under  another 
aspect,  the  feeling  of  shame — verecundia.  It  is  this  which 
brings  a  blush  to  his  cheek  at  the  thought  of  having  suddenly 
to  fall  in  the  estimation  of  others,  even  when  he  knows  that  he 
is  innocent,  nay,  even  if  his  remissness  extends  to  no  absolute 
obligation,  but  only  to  one  which  he  has  taken  upon  himself 
of  his  own  free  will.  Conversely,  nothing  in  life  gives  a  man 
so  much  courage  as  the  attainment  or  renewal  of  the  conviction 
that  other  people  regard  him  with  favor  ;  because  it  means 
that  everyone  joins  to  give  him  help  and  protection,  which  is 
an  infinitely  stronger  bulwark  against  the  ills  of  life  than  any- 
thing he  can  do  himself. 

The  variety  of  relations  in  which  a  man  can  stand  to  other 
people  so  as  to  obtain  their  confidence,  that  is,  their  good 
opinion,  gives  rise  to  a  distinction  between  several  kinds  of 
honor,  resting  chiefly  on  the  different  bearings  that  meum  may 
take  to  tuum  ;  or,  again,  on  the  performance  of  various  pledges  ; 
or  finally,  on  the  relation  of  the  sexes.  Hence,  there  are  three 
main  kinds  of  honor,  each  of  which  takes  various  forms — civic 
honor,  official  honor,  and  sexual  honor. 

Civic  honor  has  the  widest  sphere  of  all.  It  consists  in  the 
assumption  that  we  shall  pay  unconditional  respect  to  the 
rights  of  others,  and,  therefore,  never  use  any  unjust  or  un- 
lawful means  of  getting  what  we  want.  It  is  the  condition  of 
all  peaceable  intercourse  between  man  and  man  ;  and  it  is 
destroyed  by  anything  that  openly  and-  manifestly  militates 


56  THE   WISDOM    OF   LIFE. 

against  this  peaceable  intercourse,  anything,  accordingly,  which 
entails  punishment  at  the  hands  of  the  law,  always  supposing 
that  the  punishment  is  a  just  one. 

The  ultimate  foundation  of  honor  is  the  conviction  that  moral 
character  is  unalterable  :  a  single  bad  action  implies  that  future 
actions  of  the  same  kind  will,  under  similar  circumstances,  also 
be  bad.  This  is  well  expressed  by  the  English  use  of  the  word 
character  as  meaning  credit,  reputation,  honor.  Hence  honor, 
once  lost,  can  never  be  recovered  ;  unless  the  loss  rested  on 
some  mistake,  such  as  may  occur  if  a  man  is  slandered  or  his 
actions  viewed  in  a  false  light.  So  the  law  provides  remedies 
against  slander,  libel,  and  even  insult ;  for  insult  though  it 
amounts  to  no  more  than  mere  abuse,  is  a  kind  of  summary 
slander  with  a  suppression  of  the  reasons.  What  I  mean  may 
be  well  put  in  the  Greek  phrase — not  quoted  from  any  author 
— ecrnv  ^  Aot(56pta  dtaSoX^  ffwro/iof.  It  is  true  that  if  a  man  abuses 
another,  he  is  simply  showing  that  he  has  no  real  or  true  causes 
of  complaint  against  him  ;  as,  otherwise,  he  would  bring  these 
forward  as  the  premises,  and  rely  upon  his  hearers  to  draw 
the  conclusion  themselves  :  instead  of  which,  he  gives  the 
conclusion  and  leaves  out  the  premises,  trusting  that  people 
will  suppose  that  he  has  done  so  only  for  the  sake  of  being 
brief 

Civic  honor  draws  its  existence  and  name  from  the  middle 
classes  ;  but  it  applies  equally  to  all,  not  excepting  the  highest. 
No  man  can  disregard  it,  and  it  is  a  very  serious  thing,  oi 
which  every  one  should  be  careful  not  to  make  light.  The 
man  who  breaks  confidence  has  for  ever  forfeited  confidence, 
whatever  he  may  do,  and  whoever  he  may  be  ;  and  the  bitter 
consequences  of  the  loss  of  confidence  can  never  be  averted. 

There  is  a  sense  in  which  honor  may  be  said  to  have  a 
negative  character  in  opposition  to  the  positive  character  ol 
fame.  For  honor  is  not  the  opinion  people  have  of  particular 
qualities  which  a  man  may  happen  to  possess  exclusively  :  it 
is  rather  the  opinion  they  have  of  the  qualities  which  a  man 
may  be  expected  to  exhibit,  and  to  which  he  should  not  prove 
false.  Honor,  therefore,  means  that  a  man  is  not  exceptional ; 
fame,  that  he  is.     Fame  is  something  which  must  be  won ; 


HONOR.  ,  57 

honor,  only  something  which  must  not  be  lost.  The  absence 
of  fame  is  obscurity,  which  is  only  a  negative  ;  but  loss  of  honor 
is  shame,  which  is  a  positive  quality.  This  negative  character 
of  honor  must  not  be  confused  with  anything  passive;  for 
honor  is  above  all  things  active  in  its  working.  It  is  the  only 
quality  which  proceeds  directly  from  the  man  who  exhibits  it : 
it  is  concerned  entirely  with  what  he  does  and  leaves  undone, 
and  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  actions  of  others  or  the  ob- 
stacles they  place  in  his  way.  It  is  something  entirely  in  our 
own  power — tuv  kiju'muv.  This  distinction,  as  we  shall  see 
presently,  marks  off  true  honor  from  the  sham  honor  of 
chivalry. 

Slander  is  the  only  weapon  by  which  honor  can  be  attacked 
from  without ;  and  the  only  way  to  repel  the  attack  is  to  con- 
fute the  slander  with  the  proper  amount  of  publicity,  and  a  due 
unmasking  of  him  who  utters  it. 

The  reason  why  respect  is  paid  to  age  is  that  old  people 
have  necessarily  shown  in  the  course  of  their  lives  whether  or 
not  they  have  been  able  to  maintain  their  honor  unblemished  ; 
while  that  of  young  people  has  not  been  put  to  the  proof, 
though  they  are  credited  with  the  possession  of  it.  For 
neither  length  of  years, — equalled,  as  it  is,  and  even  excelled, 
in  the  case  of  some  of  the  lower  animals, — nor,  again,  experi- 
ence, which  is  only  a  closer  knowledge  of  the  world's  ways, 
can  be  any  sufficient  reason  for  the  respect  which  the  young 
are  everywhere  required  to  show  towards  the  old:  for  if  it 
were  merely  a  matter  of  years,  the  weakness  which  attends  on 
age  would  call  rather  for  consideration  than  for  respect.  It  is, 
however,  a  remarkable  fact  that  white  hair  always  commands 
reverence — a  reverence  really  innate  and  instinctive.  Wrinkles 
— a  much  surer  sign  of  old  age — command  no  reverence  at  all ; 
you  never  hear  any  one  speak  of  venerable  wrinkles;  but 
venerable  white  hair  is  a  common  expression. 

Honor  has  only  an  indirect  value.  For,  as  I  explained  at 
the  beginning  of  this  chapter,  what  other  people  think  of  us, 
if  it  affects  us  at  all,  can  affect  us  only  in  so  far  as  it  governs 
their  behavior  towards  us,  and  only  just  so  long  as  we  live 
with,  or  have  to  do  with,  them.     But  it  is  to  society  alone  that 


58  THE   WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

we  owe  that  safety  which  we  and  our  possessions  enjoy  in  a 
state  of  civilization  ;  in  all  we  do  we  need  the  help  of  others, 
and  they,  in  their  turn,  must  have  confidence  in  us  before  they 
can  have  anything  to  do  with  us.  Accordingly,  their  opinion 
of  us  is,  indirectly,  a  matter  of  great  importance  ;  though  I 
cannot  see  how  it  can  have  a  direct  or  immediate  value.  This 
is  an  opinion  also  held  by  Cicero.  /  quite  agree,  he  writes, 
with  what  Chrysippus  and  Diogenes  used  to  say,  that  a  good 
rep7itatio?i  is  not  zvorth  raising  a  finger  to  obtain,  if  it  were  not 
that  it  is  so  useful.^  This  truth  has  been  insisted  upon  at  great 
length  by  Helvetius  in  his  chief  work  De  V  Esprit,^  the  conclu- 
sion of  which  is  that  we  love  esteem  not  for  its  own  sake,  but 
solely  for  the  advantages  which  it  brings.  And  as  the  means 
can  never  be  more  than  the  end,  that  saying,  of  which  so  much 
is  made,  Honor  is  dearer  than  life  itself,  is,  as  I  have  remarked, 
a  very  exaggerated  statement.    So  much  then,  for  civic  honor. 

Official  honor  is  the  general  opinion  of  other  people  that  a 
man  who  fills  any  office  really  has  the  necessary  qualities  for 
the  proper  discharge  of  all  the  duties  which  appertain  to  it. 
The  greater  and  more  important  the  duties  a  man  has  to  dis- 
charge in  the  State,  and  the  higher  and  more  influential  the 
office  which  he  fills,  the  stronger  must  be  the  opinion  which 
people  have  of  the  moral  and  intellectual  qualities  which  render 
him  fit  for  his  post.  Therefore,  the  higher  his  position,  the 
greater  must  be  the  degree  of  honor  paid  to  him,  expressed, 
as  it  is,  in  titles,  orders  and  the  generally  subservient  behavior 
of  others  towards  him.  As  a  rule,  a  man's  official  rank  implies 
the  particular  degree  of  honor  which  ought  to  be  paid  to  him, 
however  much  this  degree  may  be  modified  by  the  capacity  of 
the  masses  to  form  any  notion  of  its  importance.  Still,  as  a 
matter  of  fa6t,  greater  honor  is  paid  to  a  man  who  fulfills 
special  duties  than  to  the  common  citizen,  whose  honor  mainly 
consists  in  keeping  clear  of  dishonor. 

Official  honor  demands,  further,  that  the  man  who  occupies 

an  office  must  maintain  respe6t  for  it,  for  the  sake  both  of  his 

colleagues  and  of  those  who  will  come  after  him.    This  respe<5t 

an  official  can  maintain  by  a  proper  observance  of  his  duties, 

'  De finibus  iii.,  17.  *  Disc:  iii.  17. 


HONOR.  59 

and  by  repelling  any  attack  that  may  be  made  upon  the  office 
itself  or  upon  its  occupant :  he  must  not,  for  instance,  pass 
over  unheeded  any  statement  to  the  effe6l  that  the  duties  of 
the  office  are  not  properly  discharged,  or  that  the  office  itself 
does  not  conduce  to  the  public  welfare.  He  must  prove  the 
unwarrantable  nature  of  such  attacks  by  enforcing  the  legal 
penalty  for  them. 

Subordinate  to  the  honor  of  official  personages  comes  that 
of  those  who  serve  the  State  in  any  other  capacity,  as  doctors, 
lawyers,  teachers,  anyone,  in  short,  who  by  graduating  in  any 
subject,  or  by  any  other  public  declaration  that  he  is  qualified 
to  exercise  some  special  skill,  claims  to  pra6lice  it  ;  in  a  word, 
the  honor  of  all  those  who  take  any  public  pledges  whatever. 
Under  this  head  comes  military  honor,  in  the  true  sense  of  the 
word,  the  opinion  that  people  who  have  bound  themselves  to 
defend  their  country  really  possess  the  requisite  qualities  which 
will  enable  them  to  do  so,  especially  courage,  personal  bravery 
and  strength,  and  that  they  are  perfectly  ready  to  defend  their 
country  to  the  death,  and  never  and  under  no  circumstances 
desert  the  flag  to  which  they  have  once  sworn  allegiance.  I 
have  here  taken  official  honor  in  a  wider  sense  than  that  in 
which  it  is  generally  used,  namely,  the  respect  due  by  citizens 
to  an  office  itself 

In  treating  of  sexual  honor  and  the  principles  on  which  it 
rests,  a  little  more  attention  and  analysis  are  necessary  ;  and 
what  I  shall  say  will  support  my  contention  that  all  honor 
really  rests  upon  a  utilitarian  basis.  There  are  two  natural 
divisions  of  the  subject — the  honor  of  women  and  the  honor  of 
men,  in  either  side  issuing  in  a  well-understood  esprit  de  corps. 
The  former  is  by  far  the  more  important  of  the  two,  because 
the  most  essential  feature  in  woman's  life  is  her  relation  to 
man. 

Female  honor  is  the  general  opinion  in  regard  to  a  girl  that 
she  is  pure,  and  in  regard  to  a  wife  that  she  is  faithful.  The 
importance  of  this  opinion  rests  upon  the  following  considera- 
tions. Women  depend  upon  men  in  all  the  relations  of  life  ; 
men  upon  women,  it  might  be  said,  in  one  only.  So  an  ar- 
rangement is  made  for  mutual  interdependence — man  under- 


6o  THE   WISDOM   OF    LIFE. 

taking  responsibility  for  all  woman's  needs  and  also  for  the 
children  that  spring  from  their  union — an  arrangement  on 
which  is  based  the  welfare  of  the  whole  female  race.  To  carry- 
out  this  plan,  women  have  to  band  together  with  a  show  of 
esprit  de  corps,  and  present  one  undivided  front  to  their  com- 
mon enemy,  man, — who  possesses  all  the  good  things  of  the 
earth,  in  virtue  of  his  superior  physical  and  intellectual  power, 
— in  order  to  lay  siege  to  and  conquer  him,  and  so  get  posses- 
sion of  him  and  a  share  of  those  good  things.  To  this  end  the 
honor  of  all  women  depends  upon  the  enforcement  of  the  rule 
that  no  woman  should  give  herself  to  a  man  except  in  marriage, 
in  order  that  every  man  may  be  forced,  as  it  were,  to  surrender 
and  ally  himself  with  a  woman  ;  by  this  arrangement  provision 
is  made  for  the  whole  of  the  female  race.  This  is  a  result, 
however,  which  can  be  obtained  only  by  a  strict  observance  of 
the  rule,  ;  and,  accordingly,  women  everywhere  show  true 
esprit  de  corps  in  carefully  insisting  upon  its  maintenance. 
Any  girl  who  commits  a  breach  of  the  rule  betrays  the  whole 
female  race,  because  its  welfare  would  be  destroyed  if  every 
woman  were  to  do  likewise  ;  so  she  is  cast  out  with  shame  as 
one  who  has  lost  her  honor.  No  woman  will  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  her ;  she  is  avoided  like  the  plague.  The 
same  doom  is  awarded  to  a  woman  who  breaks  the  marriage 
tie  ;  for  in  so  doing  she  is  false  to  the  terms  upon  which  the 
man  capitulated  ;  and  as  her  condu6l  is  such  as  to  frighten 
other  men  from  making  a  similar  surrender,  it  imperils  the 
welfare  of  all  her  sisters.  Nay,  more  ;  this  deception  and  coarse 
breach  of  troth  is  a  crime  punishable  by  the  loss,  not  only  of 
personal,  but  also  of  civic  honor.  This  is  why  we  minimize 
the  shame  of  a  girl,  but  not  of  a  wife  ;  because,  in  the  former 
case,  marriage  can  restore  honor,  while  in  the  latter,  no  atone- 
ment can  be  made  for  the  breach  of  contrail. 

Once  this  esprit  de  corps  is  acknowledged  to  be  the  founda- 
tion of  female  honor,  and  is  seen  to  be  a  wholesome,  nay,  a 
necessary  arrangement,  as  at  bottom  a  matter  of  prudence  and 
interest,  its  extreme  importance  for  the  welfare  of  women  will 
be  recognized.  But  it  does  not  possess  anything  more  than  a 
relative  value.     It  is  no  absolute  end,  lying  beyond  all  other 


HONOR.  6l 

aims  of  existence  and  valued  above  life  itself.  In  this  view, 
there  will  be  nothing  to  applaud  in  the  forced  and  extravagant 
condu6l  of  a  Lucretia  or  a  Virginius — condu6l  which  can  easily 
degenerate  into  tragic  farce,  and  produce  a  terrible  feeling  of 
revulsion.  The  conclusion  of  Emilia  Galotti,  for  instance, 
makes  one  leave  the  theatre  completely  ill  at  ease  ;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  all  the  rules  of  female  honor  cannot  prevent  a  cer- 
tain sympathy  with  Clara  in  Egmont.  To  carry  this  principle 
of  female  honor  too  far  is  to  forget  the  end  in  thinking  of  the 
means — and  this  is  just  what  people  often  do  ;  for  such  ex- 
aggeration suggests  that  the  value  of  sexual  honor  is  absolute ; 
while  the  truth  is  that  it  is  more  relative  than  any  other  kind. 
One  might  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  its  value  is  purely  conven- 
tional, when  one  sees  from  Thomasius  how  in  all  ages  and 
countries,  up  to  the  time  of  the  Reformation,  irregularities 
were  permitted  and  recognized  by  law,  with  no  derogation 
to  female  honor, — not  to  speak  of  the  temple  of  Mylitta  at 
Babylon.* 

There  are  also  of  course  certain  circumstances  in  civil  life 
which  make  external  forms  of  marriage  impossible,  especially 
in  Catholic  countries,  where  there  is  no  such  thing  as  divorce. 
Ruling  princes  everywhere,  would,  in  my  opinion,  do  much 
better,  from  a  moral  point  of  view,  to  dispense  with  forms 
altogether  rather  than  contract  a  morganatic  marriage,  the 
descendants  of  which  might  raise  claims  to  the  throne  if  the 
legitimate  stock  happened  to  die  out  ;  so  that  there  is  a  pos- 
sibility, though,  perhaps,  a  remote  one,  that  a  morganatic 
marriage  might  produce  a  civil  war.  And,  besides,  such  a 
marriage,  concluded  in  defiance  of  all  outward  ceremony,  is  a 
concession  made  to  women  and  priests — two  classes  of  persons 
to  whom  one  should  be  most  careful  to  give  as  little  tether  as 
possible.  It  is  further  to  be  remarked  that  every  man  in  a 
country  can  marry  the  woman  of  his  choice,  except  one  poor 
individual,  namely,  the  prince.  His  hand  belongs  to  his 
country,  and  can  be  given  in  marriage  only  for  reasons  of 
State,  that  is,  for  the  good  of  the  country.  Still,  for  all  that, 
he  is  a  man  ;  and,  as  a  man,  he  likes  to  follow  whither  his 

'  Herodotus,  i.  199. 


62  THE   WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

heart  leads.  It  is  an  unjust,  ungrateful  and  priggish  thing  to 
forbid,  or  to  desire  to  forbid,  a  prince  from  following  his  in- 
clinations in  this  matter  ;  of  course,  as  long  as  the  lady  has  no 
influence  upon  the  Government  of  the  country.  From  her 
point  of  view  she  occupies  an  exceptional  position,  and  does 
not  come  under  the  ordinary  rules  of  sexual  honor  ;  for  she 
has  merely  given  herself  to  a  man  who  loves  her,  and  whom 
she  loves  but  cannot  marry.  And  in  general,  the  fact  that  the 
principle  of  female  honor  has  no  origin  in  nature,  is  shown  by 
the  many  bloody  sacrifices  which  have  been  offered  to  it, — the 
murder  of  children  and  the  mother's  suicide.  No  doubt  a  girl 
who  contravenes  the  code  commits  a  breach  of  faith  against 
her  whole  sex  ;  but  this  faith  is  one  which  is  only  secretly 
taken  for  granted,  and  not  sworn  to.  And  since,  in  most 
cases,  her  own  prospects  suffer  most  immediately,  her  folly  is 
infinitely  greater  than  her  crime. 

The  corresponding  virtue  in  men  is  a  produ6l  of  the  one  I 
have  been  discussing.  It  is  their  esprit  de  corps,  which  de- 
mands that,  once  a  man  has  made  that  surrender  of  himself  in 
marriage  which  is  so  advantageous  to  his  conqueror,  he  shall 
take  care  that  the  terms  of  the  treaty  are  maintained  ;  both  in 
order  that  the  agreement  itself  may  lose  none  of  its  force  by 
the  permission  of  any  laxity  in  its  observance,  and  that  men, 
having  given  up  everything,  may,  at  least,  be  assured  of  their 
bargain,  namely,  exclusive  possession.  Accordingly,  it  is  part 
of  a  man's  honor  to  resent  a  breach  of  the  marriage  tie  on  the 
part  of  his  wife,  and  to  punish  it,  at  the  very  least  by  separa- 
ting from  her.  If  he  condones  the  offence,  his  fellowmen  cry 
shame  upon  him  ;  but  the  shame  in  this  case  is  not  nearly  so 
foul  as  that  of  the  woman  who  has  lost  her  honor  ;  the  stain  is 
by  no  means  of  so  deep  a  dye — levioris  notae  viacula  ; — because 
a  man's  relation  to  woman  is  subordinate  to  many  other  and 
more  important  affairs  in  his  life.  The  two  great  dramatic 
poets  of  modern  times  have  each  taken  man's  honor  as  the 
theme  of  two  plays  ;  Shakespeare  in  Othello  and  The  Winter' s 
Tale,  and  Calderon  in  El  medico  de  su  honra,  (The  Physician 
of  his  Honor),  and  A  secreto  agravio  secreta  venganza,  (for 
Secret  Insult  Secret  Vengeance).     It  should  be  said,  however, 


HONOR.  63 

that  honor  demands  the  punishment  of  the  wife  only ;  to  punish 
her  paramour  too,  is  a  work  of  supererogation.  This  con- 
firms the  view  I  have  taken,  that  a  man's  honor  originates  in 
esprit  de  corps. 

The  kind  of  honor  which  I  have  been  discussing  hitherto 
has  always  existed  in  its  various  forms  and  principles  amongst 
all  nations  and  at  all  times  ;  although  the  history  of  female 
honor  shows  that  its  principles  have  undergone  certain  local 
modifications  at  different  periods.  But  there  is  another  species 
of  honor  which  differs  from  this  entirely,  a  species  of  honor  of 
which  the  Greeks  and  Romans  had  no  conception,  and  up  to 
this  day  it  is  perfectly  unknown  amongst  Chinese,  Hindoos  or 
Mohammedans.  It  is  a  kind  of  honor  which  arose  only  in  the 
Middle  Age,  and  is  indigenous  only  to  Christian  Europe,  nay, 
only  to  an  extremely  small  portion  of  the  population,  that  is  to 
say,  the  higher  classes  of  society  and  those  who  ape  them.  It 
is  knightly  honor,  ox  point  d^  honneur.  Its  principles  are  quite 
different  from  those  which  underlie  the  kind  of  honor  I  have 
been  treating  until  now,  and  in  some  respe6ls  are  even  opposed 
to  them.  The  sort  I  am  referring  to  produces  the  cavalier ; 
while  the  other  kind  creates  the  man  of  honor.  As  this  is  so, 
I  shall  proceed  to  give  an  explanation  of  its  principles,  as  a 
kind  of  code  or  mirror  of  knightly  courtesy. 

(i.)  To  begin  with,  honor  of  this  sort  consists,  not  in  other 
people's  opinion  of  what  we  are  worth,  but  wholly  and  entirely 
in  whether  they  express  it  or  not,  no  matter  whether  they 
really  have  any  opinion  at  all,  let  alone  whether  they  know  of 
reasons  for  having  one.  Other  people  may  entertain  the  worst 
opinion  of  us  in  consequence  of  what  we  do,  and  may  despise 
us  as  much  as  they  like  ;  so  long  as  no  one  dares  to  give  ex- 
pression to  his  opinion,  our  honor  remains  untarnished.  So 
if  our  actions  and  qualities  compel  the  highest  respe6l  from 
other  people,  and  they  have  no  option  but  to  give  this  respe6t, 
— as  soon  as  anyone,  no  matter  how  wicked  or  foolish  he  may 
be,  utters  something  depreciatory  of  us,  our  honor  is  offended, 
"^y>  gone  for  ever,  unless  we  can  manage  to  restore  it.  A 
superfluous  proof  of  what  I  say,  namely,  that  knightiy  honor 
depends,  not  upon  what  people  think,  but  upon  what  they  say, 


I 

64  THE   WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

is  furnished  by  the  fa6l  that  insults  can  be  withdrawn,  or,  if 
necessary,  form  the  subject  of  an  apology,  which  makes  them 
as  though  they  had  never  been  uttered.  Whether  the  opinion 
which  underlays  the  expression  has  also  been  redlified,  and  why 
the  expression  should  ever  have  been  used,  are  questions  which 
are  perfedly  unimportant :  so  long  as  the  statement  is  with- 
drawn, all  is  well.  The  truth  is  that  conduct  of  this  kind  aims, 
not  at  earning  respect,  but  at  extorting  it. 

(2.)  In  the  second  place,  this  sort  of  honor  rests,  not  on 
what  a  man  does,  but  on  what  he  suffers,  the  obstacles  he 
encounters  ;  differing  from  the  honor  which  prevails  in  all  else, 
in  consisting,  not  in  what  he  says  or  does  himself,  but  in  what 
another  man  says  or  does.  His  honor  is  thus  at  the  mercy  of 
every  man  who  can  talk  it  away  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  ;  and 
if  he  attacks  it,  in  a  moment  it  is  gone,  for  ever, — unless  the 
man  who  is  attacked  manages  to  wrest  it  back  again  by  a 
process  which  I  shall  mention  presently,  a  process  which  in- 
volves danger  to  his  life,  health,  freedom,  property  and  peace 
of  mind.  A  man's  whole  condu6l  may  be  in  accordance  with 
the  most  righteous  and  noble  principles,  his  spirit  may  be  the 
purest  that  ever  breathed,  his  intelle6l  of  the  very  highest 
order ;  and  yet  his  honor  may  disappear  the  moment  that 
anyone  is  pleased  to  insult  him,  anyone  at  all  who  has  not 
offended  against  this  code  of  honor  himself,  let  him  be  the  most 
worthless  rascal  or  the  most  stupid  beast,  an  idler,  gambler, 
debtor,  a  man,  in  short,  of  no  account  at  all.  It  is  usually  this 
sort  of  fellow  who  likes  to  insult  people  ;  for,  as  Seneca ' 
rightly  remarks,  ut  quisque  contemtissimus  et  ludibrio  est,  ita 
solutissimcB  Ungues  est,  the  more  contemptible  and  ridiculous 
a  man  is, — the  readier  he  is  with  his  tongue.  His  insults  are 
most  likely  to  be  dire6ted  against  the  very  kind  of  man  I  have 
described,  because  people  of  different  tastes  can  never  be 
friends,  and  the  sight  of  pre-eminent  merit  is  apt  to  raise  the 
secret  ire  of  a  ne'er-do-well.  What  Goethe  says  in  the  IVest- 
ostlicher  Divan  is  quite  true,  that  it  is  useless  to  complain 
against  your  enemies  ;  for  they  can  never  become  your  friends, 
if  your  whole  being  is  a  standing  reproach  to  them  : — 

'  De  Constantia,  11. 


HONOR.  65 

JJ^as  klagst  du  uber  Feinde  ? 
Sollten  Sole  he  J e  werden  Freunde 
Denen  das  We  sen,  wie  du  bist, 
Im  stillen  ein  ewiger  Vorwurf  ist? 

It  is  obvious  that  people  of  this  worthless  description  have 
good  cause  to  be  thankful  to  the  principle  of  honor,  because  it 
puts  them  on  a  level  with  people  who  in  every  other  respedl 
stand  far  above  them.  If  a  fellow  likes  to  insult  any  one, 
attribute  to  him,  for  example,  some  bad  quality,  this  is  taken 
prima  facie  as  a  well-founded  opinion,  true  in  fact ;  a  decree, 
as  it  were,  with  all  the  force  of  law  ;  nay,  if  it  is  not  at  once 
wiped  out  in  blood,  it  is  a  judgment  which  holds  good  and 
valid  to  all  time.  In  other  words,  the  man  who  is  insulted 
remains — in  the  eyes  of  all  honorable  people — what  the  man  who 
uttered  the  insult — even  though  he  were  the  greatest  wretch 
on  earth — was  pleased  to  call  him  ;  for  he  has  put  up  with  the 
insult — the  technical  term,  I  believe.  Accordingly,  all  honor- 
able people  will  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him,  and  treat 
him  like  a  leper,  and,  it  may  be,  refuse  to  go  into  any  company 
where  he  may  be  found,  and  so  on. 

This  wise  proceeding  may,  I  think,  be  traced  back  to  the 
fact  that  in  the  Middle  Age,  up  to  the  fifteenth  century,  it  was 
not  the  accuser  in  any  criminal  process  who  had  to  prove  the 
guilt  of  the  accused,  but  the  accused  who  had  to  prove  his 
innocence.^  This  he  could  do  by  swearing  he  was  not  guilty  ; 
and  his  backers — consacramentales — had  to  come  and  swear 
that  in  their  opinion  he  was  incapable  of  perjury.  If  he  could 
find  no  one  to  help  him  in  this  way,  or  the  accuser  took  objec- 
tion to  his  backers,  recourse  was  had  to  trial  by  the  Judgment 
of  God,  which  generally  meant  a  duel.  For  the  accused  was 
now  in  disgrace,'^  and  had  to  clear  himself.  Here,  then,  is  the 
origin  of  the  notion  of  disgrace,  and  of  that  whole  system 
which  prevails  now-a-days  amongst  honorable  people — only  that 
the  oath  is  omitted.     This  is  also  the  explanation  of  that  deep 

'  See  C.  G.  von  Wachter's  Beitrdge  zur  deutschen  Geschichte, 
especially  the  chapter  on  criminal  law. 

"  Translator' s  Note.  It  is  true  that  this  expression  has  another  and 
special  meaning  in  the  technical  terminology  of  Chivalry,  but  it  is  the 
nearest  Etiglisii  equivalent  which  I  can  find  for  the  German — ein 
Bescholtener. 


66  THE    WISDOM   OF    LIFE. 

feeling  of  indignation  which  honorable  people  are  called  upon 
to  show  if  they  are  given  the  lie  ;  it  is  a  reproach  which  they 
say  must  be  wiped  out  in  blood.  It  seldom  comes  to  this  pass, 
however,  though  lies  are  of  common  occurrence  ;  but  in  Eng- 
land, more  than  elsewhere,  it  is  a  superstition  which  has  taken 
very  deep  root.  As  a  matter  of  order,  a  man  who  threatens 
to  kill  another  for  telling  a  lie  should  never  have  told  one 
himself.  The  fact  is,  that  the  criminal  trial  of  the  Middle  Age 
also  admitted  of  a  shorter  form.  In  reply  to  the  charge,  the 
accused  answered  :  That  is  a  lie ;  whereupon  it  was  left  to  be 
decided  by  the  Judgment  of  God.  Hence,  the  code  of  knightly 
honor  prescribes  that,  when  the  lie  is  given,  an  appeal  to  arms 
follows  as  a  matter  of  course.  So  much,  then,  for  the  theory 
of  insult. 

But  there  is  something  even  worse  than  insult,  something 
so  dreadful  that  I  must  beg  pardon  of  all  honorable  people  iox 
so  much  as  mentioning  it  in  this  code  of  knightly  honor  ;  for 
I  know  they  will  shiver,  and  their  hair  will  stand  on  end,  at 
the  very  thought  of  it — the  summum  malum,  the  greatest  evil 
on  earth,  worse  than  death  and  damnation.  A  man  may  give 
another — horrible  dictu  / — a  slap  or  a  blow.  This  is  such  an 
awful  thing,  and  so  utterly  fatal  to  all  honor,  that,  while  any 
other  species  of  insult  may  be  healed  by  blood-letting,  this 
can  be  cured  only  by  the  coup-de-grdce. 

(3.)  In  the  third  place,  this  kind  of  honor  has  absolutely 
nothing  to  do  with  what  a  man  may  be  in  and  for  himself;  or, 
again,  with  the  question  whether  his  moral  character  can  ever 
become  better  or  worse,  and  all  such  pedantic  inquiries.  If 
your  honor  happens  to  be  attacked,  or  to  all  appearances  gone, 
it  can  very  soon  be  restored  in  its  entirety  if  you  are  only 
quick  enough  in  having  recourse  to  the  one  universal  remedy 
— a  duel.  But  if  the  aggressor  does  not  belong  to  the  classes 
which  recognize  the  code  of  knightly  honor,  or  has  himself  once 
offended  against  it,  there  is  a  safer  way  of  meeting  any  attack 
upon  your  honor,  whether  it  consists  in  blows,  or  merely  in 
words.  If  you  are  armed,  you  can  strike  down  your  opponent 
on  the  spot,  or  perhaps  an  hour  later.  This  will  restore  your 
honor. 


HONOR.  67 

But  if  you  wish  to  avoid  such  an  extreme  step,  from  fear  of 
any  unpleasant  consequences  arising  therefrom,  or  from  un- 
certainty as  to  whether  the  aggressor  is  subject  to  the  laws  of 
knightly  honor  or  not,  there  is  another  means  of  making  your 
position  good,  namely,  the  Avantage.  This  consists  in  re- 
turning rudeness  with  still  greater  rudeness  ;  and  if  insults  are 
no  use,  you  can  try  a  blow,  which  forms  a  sort  of  climax  in 
the  redemption  of  your  honor  ;  for  instance,  a  box  on  the  ear 
may  be  cured  by  a  blow  with  a  stick,  and  a  blow  with  a  stick 
by  a  thrashing  with  a  horsewhip  ;  and,  as  the  approved  remedy 
for  this  last,  some  people  recommend  you  to  spit  at  your  op- 
ponent.* If  all  these  means  are  of  no  avail,  you  must  not 
shrink  from  drawing  blood.  And  the  reason  for  these  methods 
of  wiping  out  insult  is,  in  this  code,  as  follows  : 

(4.)  To  receive  an  insult  is  disgraceful  ;  to  give  one,  honor- 
able. Let  me  take  an  example.  My  opponent  has  truth,  right 
and  reason  on  his  side.  Very  well.  I  insult  him.  Thereupon 
right  and  honor  leave  him  and  come  to  me,  and,  for  the  time 
being,  he  has  lost  them — until  he  gets  them  baek,  not  by  the 
exercise  of  right  or  reason,  but  by  shooting  and  sticking  me. 
Accordingly,  rudeness  is  a  quality  which,  in  point  of  honor,  is 
a  substitute  for  any  other  and  outweighs  them  all.  The  rudest 
is  always  right.  What  more  do  you  want  ?  However  stupid, 
bad  or  wicked  a  man  may  have  been,  if  he  is  only  rude  into 
the  bargain,  he  condones  and  legitimizes  all  his  faults.  If  in 
any  discussion  or  conversation,  another  man  shows  more 
knowledge,  greater  love  of  truth,  a  sounder  judgment,  better 
understanding  than  we,  or  generally  exhibits  intellectual  quali- 
ties which  cast  ours  into  the  shade,  we  can  at  once  annul  his 
superiority  and  our  own  shallowness,  and  in  our  turn  be  supe- 
rior to  him,  by  being  insulting  and  offensive.  For  rudeness  is 
better  than  any  argument ;  it  totally  eclipses  intelledt.  If  our 
opponent  does  not  care  for  our  mode  of  attack,  and  will  not 
answer  still  more  rudely,  so  as  to  plunge  us  into  the  ignoble 
rivalry  of  the  Avantage,  we  are  the  victors  and  honor  is  on  our 

•  Translator^ s  Note.  It  must  be  remembered  that  Schopenhauer  is 
here  describing,  or  perhaps  caricaturing,  the  manners  and  customs  of 
the  German  aristocracy  of  half  a  century  ago.  Now,  of  course,  nous 
avons  change  tout  cela  ! 


68  ■  THE   WISDOM    OF   LIFE. 

side.     Truth,  knowledge,  understanding,  intelle6t,  wit,  must 
beat  a  retreat  and  leave  the  field  to  this  almighty  insolence. 

Honorable  people  immediately  make  a  show  of  mounting 
their  war-horse,  if  anyone  utters  an  opinion  adverse  to  theirs, 
or  shows  more  intelligence  than  they  can  muster  ;  and  if  in 
any  controversy  they  are  at  a  loss  for  a  reply,  they  look  about 
for  some  weapon  of  rudeness,  which  will  serve  as  well  and 
come  readier  to  hand  ;  so  they  retire  masters  of  the  position. 
It  must  now  be  obvious  that  people  are  quite  right  in  applaud- 
ing this  principle  of  honor  as  having  ennobled  the  tone  of 
society.  This  principle  springs  from  another,  which  forms  the 
heart  and  soul  of  the  entire  code. 

(5.)  Fiftly,  the  code  implies  that  the  highest  court  to  which 
a  man  can  appeal  in  any  differences  he  may  have  with  another 
on  a  point  of  honor  is  the  court  of  physical  force,  that  is,  of 
brutality.  Every  piece  of  rudeness  is,  stri6lly  speaking,  an 
appeal  to  brutality  ;  for  it  is  a  declaration  that  intellectual 
strength  and  moral  insight  are  incompetent  to  decide,  and  that 
the  battle  must  be  fought  out  by  physical  force — a  ;struggle 
which,  in  the  case  of  man,  whom  Franklin  defines  as  a  tool- 
making  animaly  is  decided  by  the  weapons  peculiar  to  the 
species  ;  and  the  decision  is  irrevocable.  This  is  the  well- 
known  principle  of  right  of  might — irony,  of  course,  like  the 
wit  of  a  fool,  a  parallel  phrase.  The  honor  of  a  knight  may 
be  called  the  glory  of  might. 

(6.)  Lastly,  if,  as  we  saw  above,  civic  honor  is  very  scrupu- 
lous in  the  matter  of  meunt  and  tuum,  paying  great  respedt  to 
obHgations  and  a  promise  once  made,  the  code  we  are  here 
discussing  displays,  on  the  other  hand,  the  noblest  liberality. 
There  is  only  one  word  which  may  not  be  broken,  the  word 
of  honor — upon  my  honor ^  as  people  say — the  presumption 
being,  of  course,  that  every  other  form  of  promise  may  be 
broken.  Nay,  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  it  is  easy  to 
break  even  one's  word  of  honor,  and  still  remain  honorable — 
again  by  adopting  that  universal  remedy,  the  duel,  and  fight- 
ing with  those  who  maintain  that  we  pledged  our  word. 
Further,  there  is  one  debt,  and  one  alone,  that  under  no  cir- 
cumstances must  be  left  unpaid — a  gambling  debt,  which  has 


HONOR.  69 

accordingly  been  called  a  debt  of  honor.  In  all  other  kinds  of 
debt  you  may  cheat  Jews  and  Christians  as  much  as  you  like  ; 
and  your  knightly  honor  remains  without  a  stain. 

The  unprejudiced  reader  will  see  at  once  that  such  a  strange, 
savage  and  ridiculous  code  of  honor  as  this  has  no  foundation 
in  human  nature,  nor  any  warrant  in  a  healthy  view  of  human 
affairs.  The  extremely  narrow  sphere  of  its  operation  serves 
only  to  intensify  the  feeling,  which  is  exclusively  confined  to 
Europe  since  the  Middle  Age,  and  then  only  to  the  upper 
classes,  officers  and  soldiers,  and  people  who  imitate  them. 
Neither  Greeks  nor  Romans  knew  anything  of  this  code  of 
honor  or  of  its  principles  ;  nor  the  highly  civilized  nations  of 
Asia,  ancient  or  modern.  Amongst  them  no  other  kind  of 
honor  is  recognized  but  that  which  I  discussed  first,  in  virtue 
of  which  a  man  is  what  he  shows  himself  to  be  by  his  actions, 
not  what  any  wagging  tongue  is  pleased  to  say  of  him.  They 
thought  that  what  a  man  said  or  did  might  perhaps  aflfect  his 
own  honor,  but  not  any  other  man's.  To  them,  a  blow  was 
but  a  blow — and  any  horse  or  donkey  could  give  a  harder  one 
— a  blow  which  under  certain  circumstances  might  make  a 
man  angry  and  demand  immediate  vengeance  ;  but  it  had 
nothing  to  do  with  honor.  No  one  kept  account  of  blows  or 
insulting  words,  or  of  the  satisfaction  which  was  demanded  or 
omitted  to  be  demanded.  Yet  in  personal  bravery  and  con- 
tempt of  death,  the  ancients  were  certainly  not  inferior  to  the 
nations  of  Christian  Europe.  The  Greeks  and  Romans  were 
thorough  heroes,  if  you  like  ;  but  they  knew  nothing  about 
point  d'honneur.  If  they  had  any  idea  of  a  duel,  it  was  totally 
unconne6led  with  the  life  of  the  nobles  ;  it  was  merely  the  ex- 
hibition of  mercenary  gladiators,  slaves  devoted  to  slaughter, 
condemned  criminals,  who,  alternately  with  wild  beasts,  were 
set  to  butcher  one  another  to  make  a  Roman  hohday.  When 
Christianity  was  introduced,  gladiatorial  shows  were  done  away 
with,  and  their  place  taken,  in  Christian  times,  by  the  duel, 
which  was  a  way  of  settling  difficulties  by  the  fudgment  of 
God. 

If  the  gladiatorial  fight  was  a  cruel  sacrifice  to  the  prevailing 
desire  for  great  spectacles,  dueling  is  a  cruel  sacrifice  to  exist- 


70  THE    WISDOM    OF    LIFE. 

ing  prejudices — a  sacrifice,  not  of  criminals,  slaves  and  prisoners, 
but  of  the  noble  and  the  free.' 

There  are  a  great  many  traits  in  the  character  of  the  ancients 
which  show  that  they  were  entirely  free  from  these  prejudices. 
When,  for  instance,  Marius  was  summoned  to  a  duel  by  a 
Teutonic  chief,  he  returned  answer  to  the  effect  that,  if  the 
chief  were  tired  of  his  life,  he  might  go  and  hang  himself;  at 
the  same  time  he  offered  him  a  veteran  gladiator  for  a  round 
or  two.  Plutarch  relates  in  his  life  of  Themistocles  that  Eury- 
biades,  who  was  in  command  of  the  fleet,  once  raised  his  stick 
to  strike  him  ;  whereupon  Themistocles,  instead  of  drawing 
his  sword,  simply  said :  Strike,  but  hear  me.  How  sorry  the 
reader  must  be,  if  he  is  an  honorable  man,  to  find  that  we  have 
no  information  that  the  Athenian  officers  refused  in  a  body  to 
serve  any  longer  under  Themistocles,  if  he  acted  like  that ! 
There  is  a  modern  French  writer  who  declares  that  if  anyone 
considers  Demosthenes  a  man  of  honor,  his  ignorance  will 
excite  a  smile  of  pity  ;  and  that  Cicero  was  not  a  man  of  honor 
either!*  In  a  certain  passage  in  Plato's  Zazf/j,*  the  philosopher 
speaks  at  length  of  aUia  or  assault,  showing  us  clearly  enough 
that  the  ancients  had  no  notion  of  any  feeling  of  honor  in  con- 
nedlion  with  such  matters.  Socrates'  frequent  discussions  were 
often  followed  by  his  being  severely  handled,  and  he  bore  it  all 
mildly.  Once,  for  instance,  when  somebody  kicked  him,  the 
patience  with  which  he  took  the  insult  surprised  one  of  his 
friends.  Do  you  thvik,  said  Socrates,  that  if  an  ass  happened 
to  kick  me,  I  should  resent  itf*  On  another  occasion,  when  he 
was  asked,  Has  not  that  fellow  abused  and  insulted  you  f  No, 
was  his  answer,  what  he  says  is  not  addressed  to  me.^  Stobaeus, 
has  preserved  a  long  passage  from  Musonius,  from  which  we 
can  see  how  the  ancients  treated  insults.  They  knew  no  other 
form  of  satisfaction  than  that  which  the  law  provided,  and  wise 
people  despised  even  this.  If  a  Greek  received  a  box  on  the 
ear,  he  could  get  satisfaction  by  the  aid  of  the  law  ;  as  is  evident 

>  Translator' s  Note.  These  and  other  remarks  on  dueling  will  no 
doubt  wear  a  belated  look  to  English  readers  ;  but  they  are  hardly 
yet  antiquated  for  most  parts  of  the  Continent. 

^  Soirees  litteraires :  pax  C  T)urdind.     Rouen,  1828. 

'  Bk.  IX.  *  Diogenes  Laertius,  ii.,  21.  *  Ibid  36 


HONOR.  71 

from  Plato's  Gorgias,  where  Socrates'  opinion  may  be  found. 
The  same  thing  may  be  seen  in  the  account  given  by  GelUus 
of  one  Lucius  Veratius,  who  had  the  audacity  to  give  some 
Roman  citizens  whom  he  met  on  the  road  a  box  on  the  ear, 
without  any  provocation  whatever  ;  but  to  avoid  any  ulterior 
consequences,  he  told  a  slave  to  bring  a  bag  of  small  money, 
and  on  the  spot  paid  the  trivial  legal  penalty  to  the  men  whom 
he  had  astonished  by  his  condudl. 

Crates,  the  celebrated  Cynic  philosopher,  got  such  a  box 
on  the  ear  from  Nicodromus,  the  musician,  that  his  face 
swelled  up  and  became  black  and  blue  ;  whereupon  he  put  a 
label  on  his  forehead,  with  the  inscription,  Nicodromus  fecit, 
which  brought  much  disgrace  to  the  fluteplayer  who  had 
committed  such  a  piece  of  brutality  upon  the  man  whom  all 
Athens  honored  as  a  household  god.*  And  in  a  letter  to 
Melesippus,  Diogenes  of  Sinope  tells  us  that  he  got  a  beating 
from  the  drunken  sons  of  the  Athenians  ;  but  he  adds  that  it 
was  a  matter  of  no  importance.*  And  Seneca  devotes  the  last 
few  chapters  of  his  De  Constantia  to  a  lengthy  discussion  on 
insult — contumelia;  in  order  to  show  that  a  wise  man  will  take 
no  notice  of  it.  In  Chapter  XIV.  he  says,  What  shall  a  wise 
man  do,  if  he  is  given  a  blow  ?  What  Cato  did,  when  some  one 
struck  him  on  the  mouth  ; — not  fire  up  or  avenge  the  insult,  or 
even  return  the  blow,  but  simply  ignore  it. 

Yes,  you  say,  but  these  men  were  philosophers. — And  you  are 
fools,  eh?     Precisely. 

It  is  clear  that  the  whole  code  of  knightly  honor  was  utterly 
unknown  to  the  ancients  ;  for  the  simple  reason  that  they 
always  took  a  natural  and  unprejudiced  view  of  human  affairs, 
and  did  not  allow  themselves  to  be  influenced  by  any  such 
vicious  and  abominable  folly.  A  blow  in  the  face  was  to  them 
a  blow  and  nothing  more,  a  trivial  physical  injury  ;  whereas 
the  moderns  make  a  catastrophe  out  of  it,  a  theme  for  a 
tragedy  ;  as,  for  instance,  in  the  Cid  of  Corneille,  or  in  a 
recent  German  comedy  of  middle-class  life,  called  The  Power 
of  Circumstance,  which  should  have  been  entitled  The  Power, 

>  Diogenes  Laertius,  vi.  87,  and  Apul :  Flor  :  p.  126. 
*  Cf.  Casaubon's  Note,  Diog.  Laert.,  vi.  33. 


72  THE   WISDOM   OF  LIFE. 

of  Prejudice.  If  a  member  of  the  National  Assembly  at  Paris 
got  a  blow  on  the  ear,  it  would  resound  from  one  end  of 
Europe  to  the  other.  The  examples  which  I  have  given  of 
the  way  in  which  such  an  occurrence  would  have  been  treated 
in  classic  times  may  not  suit  the  ideas  of  honorable  people  ;  so 
let  me  recommend  to  their  notice,  as  a  kind  of  antidote,  the 
story  of  Monsieur  Desglands  in  Diderot's  masterpiece,  ^r^M^j 
le  fataliste.  It  is  an  excellent  specimen  of  modern  knightly 
honor,  which,  no  doubt,  they  will  find  enjoyable  and  edifying.* 
From  what  I  have  said  it  must  be  quite  evident  that  the 
principle  of  knightly  honor  has  no  essential  and  spontaneous 
origin  in  human  nature.  It  is  an  artificial  produ6l,  and  its 
source  is  not  hard  to  find.  Its  existence  obviously  dates  from 
the  time  when  people  used  their  fists  more  than  their  heads, 
when  priestcraft  had  enchained  the  human  intelle<5l,  the  much 
bepraised  Middle  Age,  with  its  system  of  chivalry.  That  was  ' 
the  time  when  people  let  the  Almighty  not  only  care  for  them 
but  judge  for  them  too  ;  when  difficult  cases  were  decided  by 
an  ordeal,  a  Judgment  of  God ;  which,  with  few  exceptions, 
meant  a  duel,  not  only  where  nobles  were  concerned,  but  in 
the  case  of  ordinary  citizens  as  well.  There  is  a  neat  illustra- 
tion of  this  in  Shakespeare's  Henry  VI.*  Every  judicial  sen- 
tence was  subject  to  an  appeal  to  arms — a  court,  as  it  were,  of 
higher  instance,  namely,  the  Judgment  of  God :  and  this  really 
meant  that  physical  strength  and  activity,  that  is,  our  animal 

'  Translator' s  Note.  The  story  to  which  Schopenhauer  here  refers 
is  briefly  as  follows  :  Two  gentlemen,  one  of  whom  was  named  Des- 
glands, were  paying  court  to  the  same  lady.  As  they  sat  at  table  side 
by  side,  with  the  lady  opposite,  Desglands  did  his  best  to  charm  her 
with  his  conversation  ;  but  she  pretended  not  to  hear  him,  and  kept 
looking  at  his  rival.  In  the  agony  of  jealousy,  Desglands,  as  he  was 
holding  a  fresh  egg  in  his  hand,  involuntarily  crushed  it ;  the  shell 
broke,  and  its  contents  bespattered  his  rival's  face.  Seeing  him  raise 
his  hand,  Desglands  seized  it  and  whispered:  Sir,  I  take  it  as  given. 
The  next  day  Desglands  appeared  with  a  large  piece  of  black  sticking- 
plaster  upon  his  right  cheek.  In  the  duel  which  followed,  Desglands 
severely  wounded  his  rival ;  upon  which  he  reduced  the  size  of  the 
plaster.  When  his  rival  recovered,  they  had  another  duel  ;  Desglands 
drew  blood  again,  and  again  made  his  plaster  a  little  smaller  ;  and  so 
on  for  five  or  six  times.  After  every  duel  Desglands'  plaster  grew 
less  and  less,  until  at  last  his  rival  was  killed. 

«  Part  II.,  Act  2,  Sc.  3. 


HONOR.  73 

nature,  usurped  the  place  of  reason  on  the  judgment  seat, 
deciding  in  matters  of  right  and  wrong,  not  by  what  a  man 
had  done,  but  by  the  force  with  which  he  was  opposed,  the 
same  system,  in  fact,  as  prevails  to-day  under  the  principles 
of  knightly  honor.  If  any  one  doubts  that  such  is  really  the 
origin  of  our  modern  duel,  let  him  read  an  excellent  work  by 
J.  B.  Millingen,  The  History  of  Dueling}  Nay,  you  may  still 
find  amongst  the  supporters  of  the  system, — who,  by  the  way, 
are  not  usually  the  most  educated  or  thoughtful  of  men, — 
some  who  look  upon  the  result  of  a  duel  as  really  constituting 
a  divine  judgment  in  the  matter  in  dispute  ;  no  doubt  in  con- 
sequence of  the  traditional  feeling  on  the  subje6l. 

But  leaving  aside  the  question  of  origin,  it  must  now  be 
clear  to  us  that  the  main  tendency  of  the  principle  is  to  use 
physical  menace  for  the  purpose  of  extorting  an  appearance  of 
respe6l  which  is  deemed  too  difficult  or  superfluous  to  acquire 
in  reality  ;  a  proceeding  which  comes  to  much  the  same  thing 
as  if  you  were  to  prove  the  warmth  of  your  room  by  holding 
your  hand  on  the  thermometer  and  so  make  it  rise.  In  fadl, 
the  kernel  of  the  matter  is  this  :  whereas  civic  honor  aims  at 
peaceable  intercourse,  and  consists  in  the  opinion  of  other 
people  that  we  deserve  full  confidence,  because  we  pay  uncon- 
ditional respeft  to  their  rights  ;  knightly  honor,  on  the  other 
hand,  lays  down  that  we  are  to  be  feared,  as  being  determined 
at  all  costs  to  maintain  our  own. 

As  not  much  reliance  can  be  placed  upon  human  integrity, 
the  principle  that  it  is  more  essential  to  arouse  fear  than  to 
Invite  confidence  would  not,  perhaps,  be  a  false  one,  if  we  were 
living  in  a  state  of  nature,  where  every  man  would  have  to 
prote6l  himself  and  directly  maintain  his  own  rights.  But  in 
civilized  life,  where  the  State  undertakes  the  protection  of  our 
person  and  property,  the  principle  is  no  longer  applicable  :  it 
stands,  like  the  castles  and  watch-towers  of  the  age  when  might 
was  right,  a  useless  and  forlorn  objedl,  amidst  well-tilled  fields 
and  frequented  roads,  or  even  railways. 

Accordingly,  the  application  of  knightly  honor,  which  still 

'  Published  in  1849. 


74  THE   WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

recognizes  this  principle,  is  confined  to  those  small  cases  of 
personal  assault  which  meet  with  but  slight  punishment  at  the 
hands  of  the  law,  or  even  none  at  all,  for  de  minimis  non, — 
mere  trivial  wrongs,  committed  sometimes  only  in  jest.  The 
consequence  of  this  limited  application  of  the  principle  is  that 
it  has  forced  itself  into  an  exaggerated  resped  for  the  value  of 
the  person, — a  respect  utterly  alien  to  the  nature,  constitution 
or  destiny  of  man — which  it  has  elevated  into  a  species  of 
san6lity  :  and  as  it  considers  that  the  State  has  imposed  a  very 
insufficient  penalty  on  the  commission  of  such  trivial  injuries, 
it  takes  upon  itself  to  punish  them  by  attacking  the  aggressor 
in  life  or  Hmb.  The  whole  thing  manifestly  rests  upon  an 
excessive  degree  of  arrogant  pride,  which,  completely  forget- 
ting what  man  really  is,  claims  that  he  shall  be  absolutely  free 
from  all  attack  or  even  censure.  Those  who  determine  to 
carry  out  this  principle  by  main  force,  and  announce,  as  their 
rule  of  action,  whoever  insults  or  strikes  me  shall  die  /  ought 
for  their  pains  to  be  banished  the  country.* 

As  a  palliative  to  this  rash  arrogance,  people  are  in  the  habit 
of  giving  way  on  everything.  If  two  intrepid  persons  meet, 
and  neither  will  give  way,  the  slightest  difference  may  cause  a 
shower  of  abuse,  then  fisticuffs,  and,  finally,  a  fatal  blow  :  so 
that  it  would  really  be  a  more  decorous  proceeding  to  omit 

'  Knightly  honor  is  the  child  of  pride  and  folly,  and  it  is  need,  not 
pride,  which  is  the  heritage  of  the  human  race.  It  is  a  very  remark- 
able fa6l  that  this  extreme  form  of  pride  should  be  found  exclusively 
amongst  the  adherents  of  the  religion  which  teaches  the  deepest 
humility.  Still,  this  pride  must  not  be  put  down  to  religion,  but, 
rather,  to  the  feudal  system,  which  made  every  nobleman  a  petty 
sovereign  who  recognized  no  human  judge,  and  learned  to  regard  his 
person  as  sacred  and  inviolable,  and  any  attack  upon  it,  or  any  blow 
or  insulting  word,  as  an  offence  punishable  with  death.  The  pnnciple 
of  knightly  honor  and  of  the  duel  was  at  first  confined  to  the  nobles, 
and,  later  on,  also  to  officers  in  the  army,  who,  enjoying  a  kind  of 
off-and-on  relationship  with  the  upper  classes,  though  they  were  never 
incorporated  with  them,  were  anxious  not  to  be  behind  them.  It  is 
true  that  duels  were  the  product  of  the  old  ordeals  ;  but  the  latter  are 
not  the  foundation,  but  rather  the  consequence  and  application  of  the 
principle  of  honor  :  the  man  who  recognized  no  human  judge  appealed 
to  the  divine.  Ordeals,  however,  are  not  peculiar  to  Christendom  : 
they  may  be  found  in  great  force  among  the  Hindoos,  especially  of 
ancient  times  ;  and  there  are  traces  of  them  even  now. 


HONOR.  75 

the  intermediate  steps  and  appeal  to  arms  at  once.  An  appeal 
to  arms  has  its  own  special  formalties  ;  and  these  have  devel- 
oped into  a  rigid  and  precise  system  of  laws  and  regulations, 
together  forming  the  most  solemn  farce  there  is — a  regular 
temple  of  honor  dedicated  to  folly  !  For  if  two  intrepid  per- 
sons dispute  over  some  trivial  matter,  (more  important  affairs 
are  dealt  with  by  law),  one  of  them,  the  cleverer  of  the  two, 
will  of  course  yield  ;  and  they  will  agree  to  differ.  That  this 
is  so  is  proved  by  the  fa6l  that  common  people, — or,  rather, 
the  numerous  classes  of  the  community  who  do  not  acknowl- 
edge the  principle  of  knightly  honor,  let  any  dispute  run  its 
natural  course.  Amongst  these  classes  homicide  is  a  hundred- 
fold rarer  than  amongst  those — and  they  amount,  perhaps,  in 
all,  to  hardly  one  in  a  thousand, — who  pay  homage  to  the 
principle  :  and  even  blows  are  of  no  very  frequent  occurrence. 
Then  it  has  been  said  that  the  manners  and  tone  of  good 
society  are  ultimately  based  upon  this  principle  of  honor, 
which,  with  its  system  of  duels,  is  made  out  to  be  a  bulwark 
against  the  assaults  of  savagery  and  rudeness.  But  Athens, 
Corinth  and  Rome  could  assuredly  boast  of  good,  nay,  excel- 
lent society,  and  manners  and  tone  of  a  high  order,  without 
any  support  from  the  bogey  of  knightly  honor.  It  is  true  that 
women  did  not  occupy  that  prominent  place  in  ancient  society 
which  they  hold  now,  when  conversation  has  taken  on  a 
frivolous  and  trifling  character,  to  the  exclusion  of  that  weighty 
discourse  which  distinguished  the  ancients.  This  change  has 
certainly  contributed  a  great  deal  to  bring  about  the  tendency, 
which  is  observable  in  good  society  now-a-days,  to  prefer 
personal  courage  to  the  possession  of  any  other  quality.  The 
fa<5l  is  that  personal  courage  is  really  a  very  subordinate  virtue, 
— merely  the  distinguishing  mark  oi  a  subaltern, — a  virtue, 
indeed,  in  which  we  are  surpassed  by  the  lower  animals  ;  or 
else  you  would  not  hear  people  say,  as  brave  as  a  lion.  Far 
from  being  the  pillar  of  society,  knightly  honor  affords  a  sure 
asylum,  in  general  for  dishonesty  and  wickedness,  and  also  for 
small  incivilities,  want  of  consideration  and  unmannerliness. 
Rude  behavior  is  often  passed  over  in  silence  because  no  one 
cares  to  risk  his  neck  in  corre6Ung  it. 


76  THE   WISDOM   OF    LIFE. 

After  what  I  have  said,  it  will  not  appear  strange  that  the 
dueling  system  is  carried  to  the  highest  pitch  of  sanguinary 
zeal  precisely  in  that  nation  whose  political  and  financial  records 
show  that  they  are  not  too  honorable.  What  that  nation  is 
like  in  its  private  and  domestic  life,  is  a  question  which  may  be 
best  put  to  those  who  are  experienced  in  the  matter.  Their 
urbanity  and  social  culture  have  long  been  conspicuous  by 
their  absence. 

There  is  no  truth,  then,  in  such  pretexts.  It  can  be  urged 
with  more  justice  that  as,  when  you  snarl  at  a  dog,  he  snarls 
in  return,  and  when  you  pet  him,  he  fawns  ;  so  it  lies  in  the 
nature  of  men  to  return  hostility  by  hostility,  and  to  be  em- 
bittered and  irritated  at  any  signs  of  depreciatory  treatment  or 
hatred  :  and,  as  Cicero  says,  there  is  something  so  penetrating 
in  the  shaft  of  envy  that  even  men  of  wisdom  and  worth  find  its 
wound  a  painful  one  :  and  nowhere  in  the  world,  except,  per- 
haps, in  a  few  religious  se6ls,  is  an  insult  or  a  blow  taken  with 
equanimity.  And  yet  a  natural  view  of  either  would  in  no 
case  demand  anything  more  than  a  requital  proportionate  to 
the  offence,  and  would  never  go  to  the  length  of  assigning 
death  as  the  proper  penalty  for  anyone  who  accuses  another  of 
lying  or  stupidity  or  cowardice.  The  old  German  theory  of 
blood  for  a  blow  is  a  revolting  superstition  of  the  age  of  chivalry. 
And  in  any  case  the  return  or  requital  of  an  insult  is  di6tated 
by  anger,  and  not  by  any  such  obligation  of  honor  and  duty 
as  the  advocates  of  chivalry  seek  to  attach  to  it.  The  fa6l  is 
that,  the  greater  the  truth,  the  greater  the  slander  ;  and  it  is 
clear  that  the  slightest  hint  of  some  real  delinquency  will  give 
much  greater  offence  than  a  most  terrible  accusation  which  is 
perfectly  baseless  :  so  that  a  man  who  is  quite  sure  that  he  has 
done  nothing  to  deserve  a  reproach  may  treat  it  with  contempt, 
and  will  be  safe  in  doing  so.  The  theory  of  honor  demands 
that  he  shall  show  a  susceptibility  which  he  does  not  possess, 
and  take  bloody  vengeance  for  insults  which  he  cannot  feel. 
A  man  must  himself  have  but  a  poor  opinion  of  his  own  worth 
who  hastens  to  prevent  the  utterance  of  an  unfavorable  opinion 
by  giving  his  enemy  a  black  eye. 

True  appreciation  of  his  own  value  will  make  a  man  really 


HONOR.  77 

indifferent  to  insult ;  but  if  he  cannot  help  resenting  it,  a  little 
shrewdness  and  culture  will  enable  him  to  save  appearances 
and  dissemble  his  anger.  If  we  could  only  get  rid  of  this 
superstition  about  honor — the  idea,  I  mean,  that  it  disappears 
when  you  are  insulted,  and  can  be  restored  by  returning  the 
insult ;  if  we  could  only  stop  people  from  thinking  that  wrong, 
brutality  and  insolence  can  be  legalized  by  expressing  readi- 
ness to  give  satisfa6lion,  that  is,  to  fight  in  defence  of  it,  we 
should  all  soon  come  to  the  general  opinion  that  insult  and 
depreciation  are  like  a  battle  in  which  the  loser  wins  ;  and 
that,  as  Vincenzo  Monti  says,  abuse  resembles  a  church-pro- 
cession, because  it  always  returns  to  the  point  from  which  it 
set  out.  If  we  could  only  get  people  to  look  upon  insult  in 
this  light,  we  should  no  longer  have  to  say  something  rude  in 
order  to  prove  that  we  are  in  the  right.  Now,  unfortunately, 
if  we  want  to  take  a  serious  view  of  any  question,  we  have  first 
of  all  to  consider  whether  it  will  not  give  offence  in  some  way 
or  other  to  the  dullard,  who  generally  shows  alarm  and  resent- 
ment at  the  merest  sign  of  intelligence ;  and  it  may  easily 
happen  that  the  head  which  contains  the  intelligent  view  has 
to  be  pitted  against  the  noddle  which  is  empty  of  everything 
but  narrowness  and  stupidity.  If  all  this  were  done  away  with, 
intelle6tual  superiority  could  take  the  leading  place  in  society 
which  is  its  due — a  place  now  occupied,  though  people  do  not 
like  to  confess  it,  by  excellence  of  physique,  mere  fighting 
pluck,  in  fact :  and  the  natural  effect  of  such  a  change  would 
be  that  the  best  kind  of  people  would  have  one  reason  the  less 
for  withdrawing  from  society.  This  would  pave  the  way  for 
the  introduction  of  real  courtesy  and  genuinely  good  society, 
such  as  undoubtedly  existed  in  Athens,  Corinth  and  Rome. 
If  anyone  wants  to  see  a  good  example  of  what  I  mean,  I 
should  Uke  him  to  read  Xenophon's  Banquet. 

The  last  argument  in  defence  of  knightly  honor  no  doubt  is, 
that,  but  for  its  existence,  the  world — awful  thought ! — would 
be  a  regular  bear-garden.  To  which  I  may  briefly  reply  that 
nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  people  out  of  a  thousand  who 
do  not  recognize  the  code,  have  often  given  and  received  a 
blow  without  any  fatal  consequences :  whereas  amongst  the 


78  THE  WISDOM  OF  LIFE. 

adherents  of  the  code  a  blow  usually  means  death  to  one  of  the 
parties.     But  let  me  examine  this  argument  more  closely. 

I  have  often  tried  to  find  some  tenable,  or  at  any  rate,  plaus- 
ible basis — other  than  a  merely  conventional  one — some  positive 
reasons,  that  is  to  say,  for  the  rooted  conviction  which  a  por- 
tion of  mankind  entertains,  that  a  blow  is  a  very  dreadful 
thing  ;  but  I  have  looked  for  it  in  vain,  either  in  the  animal 
or  in  the  rational  side  of  human  nature.  A  blow  is,  and  always 
will  be,  a  trivial  physical  injury  which  one  man  can  do  to  an- 
other ;  proving,  thereby,  nothing  more  than  his  superiority  in 
strength  or  skill,  or  that  his  enemy  was  off  his  guard.  Analysis 
will  carry  us  no  further.  The  same  knight  who  regards  a 
blow  from  the  human  hand  as  the  greatest  of  evils,  if  he  gets  a 
ten  times  harder  blow  from  his  horse,  will  give  you  the  assur- 
ance, as  he  limps  away  in  suppressed  pain,  that  it  is  a  matter 
of  no  consequence  whatever.  So  I  have  come  to  think  that  it 
is  the  human  hand  which  is  at' the  bottom  of  the  mischief.  And 
yet  in  a  battle  the  knight  may  get  cuts  and  thrusts  from  the 
same  hand,  and  still  assure  you  that  his  wounds  are  not  worth 
mentioning.  Now,  I  hear  that  a  blow  from  the  flat  of  a  sword 
is  not  by  any  means  so  bad  as  a  blow  with  a  stick  ;  and  that,  a 
short  time  ago,  cadets  were  liable  to  be  punished  by  the  one 
but  not  the  other,  and  that  the  very  greatest  honor  of  all  is  the 
accolade.  This  is  all  the  psychological  or  moral  basis  that  I 
can  find  ;  and  so  there  is  nothing  left  me  but  to  pronounce  the 
whole  thing  an  antiquated  superstition  that  has  taken  deep 
root,  and  one  more  of  the  many  examples  which  show  the  force 
of  tradition.  My  view  is  confirmed  by  the  well-known  fact  that 
in  China  a  beating  with  a  bamboo  is  a  very  frequent  punish- 
ment for  the  common  people,  and  even  for  officials  of  every 
class ;  which  shows  that  human  nature,  even  in  a  highly 
civilized  state,  does  not  run  in  the  same  groove  here  and  in 
China. 

On  the  contrary,  an  unprejudiced  view  of  human  nature 
shows  that  it  is  just  as  natural  for  a  man  to  beat  as  it  is  for 
savage  animals  to  bite  and  rend  in  pieces,  or  for  horned  beasts 
to  butt  or  push.  Man  may  be  eaid  to  be  the  animal  that  beats. 
Hence  it  is  revolting  to  our  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  to 


HONOR.  79 

hear,  as  we  sometimes  do,  that  one  man  has  bitten  another  ; 
on  the  other  hand,  it  is  a  natural  and  everyday  occurrence  for 
him  to  get  blows  or  give  them.  It  is  intelligible  enough  that, 
as  we  become  educated,  we  are  glad  to  dispense  with  blows  by 
a  system  of  mutual  restraint.  But  it  is  a  cruel  thing  to  compel 
a  nation  or  a  single  class  to  regard  a  blow  as  an  awful  misfor- 
tune which  must  have  death  and  murder  for  its  consequences. 
There  are  too  many  genuine  evils  in  the  world  to  allow  of  our 
increasing  them  by  imaginary  misfortunes,  which  bring  real 
ones  in  their  train  :  and  yet  this  is  the  precise  effe6l  of  the 
superstition,  which  thus  proves  itself  at  once  stupid  and  malign. 

It  does  not  seem  to  me  wise  of  governments  and  legislative 
bodies  to  promote  any  such  folly  by  attempting  to  do  away 
with  flogging  as  a  punishment  in  civil  or  military  life.  Their 
idea  is  that  they  are  ailing  in  the  interests  of  humanity  ;  but, 
in  point  of  fact,  they  are  doing  just  the  opposite  ;  for  the  aboli- 
tion of  flogging  will  serve  only  to  strengthen  this  inhuman  and 
abominable  superstition,  to  which  so  many  sacrifices  have 
already  been  made.  For  all  offences,  except  the  worst,  a  beat- 
ing is  the  obvious,  and  therefore  the  natural  penalty  ;  and  a 
man  who  will  not  listen  to  reason  will  yield  to  blows.  It  seems 
to  me  right  and  proper  to  administer  corporal  punishment  to 
the  man  who  possesses  nothing  and  therefore  cannot  be  fined, 
or  cannot  be  put  in  prison  because  his  master's  interests  would 
suffer  by  the  loss  of  his  service.  There  are  really  no  arguments 
against  it ;  only  mere  talk  about  the  dignity  of  man — talk  which 
proceeds,  not  from  any  clear  notions  on  the  subjedt,  but  from 
the  pernicious  superstition  I  have  been  describing.  That  it  is 
a  superstition  which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole  business  is 
proved  by  an  almost  laughable  example.  Not  long  ago,  in 
the  military  discipline  of  many  countries,  the  cat  was  replaced 
by  the  stick.  In  either  case  the  obje6l  was  to  product  physical 
pain  ;  but  the  latter  method  involved  no  disgrace,  and  was  not 
derogatory  to  honor. 

By  promoting  this  superstition,  the  State  is  playing  into  the 
hands  of  the  principle  of  knightly  honor,  and  therefore  of  the 
duel  ;  while  at  the  same  time  it  is  trying,  or  at  any  rate  it  pre- 
tends that  it  is  trying,  to  abolish  the  duel  by  legislative  ena6l- 


8o  THE  WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

ment.  As  a  natural  consequence  we  find  that  this  ft"agment  of 
the  theory  that  might  is  right,  which  has  come  down  to  us 
from  the  most  savage  days  of  the  Middle  Age,  has  still  in  this 
nineteenth  century  a  good  deal  of  life  left  in  it — more  shame 
to  us  !  It  is  high  time  for  the  principle  to  be  driven  out  bag 
and  baggage.  Now-a-days  no  one  is  allowed  to  set  dogs  or 
cocks  to  fight  each  other, — at  any  rate,  in  England  it  is  a  penal 
offence, — but  men  are  plunged  into  deadly  strife,  against  their 
will,  by  the  operation  of  this  ridiculous,  superstitious  and 
absurd  principle,  which  imposes  upon  us  the  obligation,  as  its 
narrow-minded  supporters  and  advocates  declare,  of  fighting 
with  one  another  like  gladiators,  for  any  little  trifle.  Let  me 
recommend  our  purists  to  adopt  the  expression  3a//m^,'  instead 
of  duel,  which  probably  comes  to  us,  not  from  the  Latin 
duellum,  but  from  the  Spanish  duelo, — meaning  suffering, 
nuisance,  annoyance. 

In  any  case,  we  may  well  laugh  at  the  pedantic  excess  to 
which  this  foolish  system  has  been  carried.  It  is  really  re- 
volting that  this  principle,  with  its  absurd  code,  can  form  a 
power  within  the  State — imperium  in  imperio — a  power  too 
easily  put  in  motion,  which,  recognizing  no  right  but  might, 
tyrannizes  over  the  classes  which  come  within  its  range,  by 
keeping  up  a  sort  of  inquisition,  before  which  any  one  may 
be  haled  on  the  most  flimsy  pretext,  and  there  and  then  be 
tried  on  an  issue  of  life  and  death  between  himself  and  his 
opponent.  This  is  the  lurking  place  from  which  every  rascal, 
if  he  only  belongs  to  the  classes  in  question,  may  menace  and 
even  exterminate  the  noblest  and  best  of  men,  who,  as  such, 
must  of  course  be  an  objeft  of  hatred  to  him.  Our  system  of 
justice  and  police-prote6lion  has  made  it  impossible  in  these 
days  for  any  scoundrel  in  the  street  to  attack  us  with —  Your 
money  or  your  life!  and  common  sense  ought  now  to  be  able 
to  prevent  rogues  disturbing  the  peaceable  intercourse  of 
society  by  coming  at  us  with —  Your  honor  or  your  life  /  An 
end  should  be  put  to  the  burden  which  weighs  upon  the  higher 
classes — the  burden,  I  mean,  of  having  to  be  ready  every 
moment  to  expose  life  and  limb  to  the  mercy  of  anyone  who 

'  Ritterhetze. 


HONOR.  8 1 

takes  it  Into  his  rascally  head  to  be  coarse,  rude,  foolish  or 
malicious.  It  is  perfedlly  atrocious  that  a  pair  of  silly,  pas- 
sionate boys  should  be  wounded,  maimed  or  even  killed, 
simply  because  they  have  had  a  few  words. 

The  strength  of  this  tyrannical  power  within  the  State,  and 
the  force  of  the  superstition,  may  be  measured  by  the  fadl  that 
people  who  are  prevented  from  restoring  their  knightly  honor 
by  the  superior  or  inferior  rank  of  their  aggressor,  or  anything 
else  that  puts  the  persons  on  a  different  level,  often  come  to  a 
tragic-comic  end  by  committing  suicide  in  sheer  despair.  You 
may  generally  know  a  thing  to  be  false  and  ridiculous  by  find- 
ing that,  if  it  is  carried  to  its  logical  conclusion,  it  results  in  a 
contradidlion ;  and  here,  too,  we  have  a  very  glaring  absurd- 
ity. For  an  officer  is  forbidden  to  take  part  in  a  duel ;  but  if 
he  is  challenged  and  declines  to  come  out,  he  is  punished  by 
being  dismissed  the  service. 

As  I  am  on  the  matter,  let  me  be  more  frank  still.  The 
important  distin6lion,  which  is  often  insisted  upon,  between 
killing  your  enemy  in  a  fair  fight  with  equal  weapons,  and 
lying  in  ambush  for  him,  is  entirely  a  corollary  of  the  fadl  that 
the  power  within  the  State,  of  which  I  have  spoken,  recognizes 
no  other  right  than  might,  that  is,  the  right  of  the  stronger, 
and  appeals  to  a  Judgment  of  God  as  the  basis  of  the  whole 
code.  For  to  kill  a  man  in  a  fair  fight,  is  to  prove  that  you 
are  superior  to  him  in  strength  or  skill  ;  and  to  justify  the 
deed,  you  must  assume  that  the  right  of  the  stronger  is  really  a 
right. 

But  the  truth  is  that,  if  my  opponent  is  unable  to  defend 
himself,  it  gives  me  the  possibility,  but  not  by  any  means  the 
right,  of  killing  him.  The  right,  the  moral  justification,  must 
depend  entirely  upon  the  viotives  which  I  have  for  taking  his 
life.  Even  supposing  that  I  have  sufficient  motive  for  taking 
a  man's  Ufe,  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  make  his  death 
depend  upon  whether  I  can  shoot  or  fence  better  than  he.  In 
such  a  case,  it  is  immaterial  in  what  way  I  kill  him,  whether  I 
attack  him  from  the  front  or  the  rear.  From  a  moral  point  of 
view,  the  right  of  the  stronger  is  no  more  convincing  than  the 
right  of  the  more  skillful ;  and  it  is  skill  which  is  employed  if 


82  THE  WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

you  murder  a  man  treacherously.  Might  and  skill  are  in  this 
case  equally  right ;  in  a  duel,  for  instance,  both  the  one  and 
the  other  come  into  play  ;  for  a  feint  is  only  another  name  for 
treachery.  If  I  consider,  myself  morally  justified  in  taking  a 
man's  life,  it  is  stupid  of  me  to  try  first  of  all  whether  he  can 
shoot  or  fence  better  than  I ;  as,  if  he  can,  he  will  not  only 
have  wronged  me,  but  have  taken  my  life  into  the  bargain. 

It  is  Rousseau's  opinion  that  the  proper  way  to  avenge  an 
insult  is,  not  to  fight  a  duel  with  your  aggressor,  but  to  assas- 
sinate him, — an  opinion,  however,  which  he  is  cautious  enough 
only  to  barely  indicate  in  a  mysterious  note  to  one  of  the  books 
of  his  Entile.  This  shows  the  philosopher  so  completely  under 
the  influence  of  the  mediaeval  superstition  of  knightly  honor 
that  he  considers  it  justifiable  to  murder  a  man  who  accuses 
you  of  lying  :  whilst  he  must  have  known  that  every  man,  and 
himself  especially,  has  deserved  to  have  the  lie  given  him  times 
without  number. 

The  prejudice  which  justifies  the  killing  of  your  adversary, 
so  long  as  it  is  done  in  an  open  contest  and  with  equal  weapons, 
obviously  looks  upon  might  as  really  right,  and  a  duel  as  the 
interference  of  God.  The  Italian  who,  in  a  fit  of  rage,  falls 
upon  his  aggressor  wherever  he  finds  him,  and  despatches 
him  without  any  ceremony,  a6ls,  at  any  rate,  consistently  and 
naturally  :  he  may  be  cleverer,  but  he  is  not  worse,  than  the 
duelist.  If  you  say,  I  am  justified  in  killing  my  adversary  in 
a  duel,  because  he  is  at  the  moment  doing  his  best  to  kill  me  ; 
I  can  reply  that  it  is  your  challenge  which  has  placed  him 
under  the  necessity  of  defending  himself ;  and  that  by  mutually 
putting  it  on  the  ground  of  self-defence,  the  combatants  are 
seeking  a  plausible  pretext  for  committing  murder.  I  should 
rather  justify  the  deed  by  the  legal  maxim  Volenti  non  fit 
injuria ;  because  the  parties  mutually  agree  to  set  their  life 
upon  the  issue. 

This  argument  may,  however,  be  rebutted  by  showing 
that  the  injured  party  is  not  injured  volens ;  because  it  is 
this  tyrannical  principle  of  knightly  honor,  with  its  absurd 
code,  which  forcibly  drags  one  at  least  of  the  combatants  before 
a  bloody  inquisition. 


HONOR.  83 

I  have  been  rather  prolix  on  the  subje6l  of  knightly  honor, 
but  I  had  good  reason  for  t>eing  so,  because  the  Augean  stable 
of  moral  and  intelleAual  enormity  in  this  world  can  be  cleaned 
out  only  with  the  besom  of  philosophy.  There  are  two  things 
which  more  than  all  else  serve  to  make  the  social  arrangements 
of  modern  life  compare  unfavorably  with  those  of  antiquity,  by 
giving  our  age  a  gloomy,  dark  and  sinister  aspe(5l,  from  which 
antiquity,  fresh,  natural  and,  as  it  were,  in  the  morning  of  life, 
is  completely  free  ;  I  mean  modem  honor  and  modem  disease, 
— par  nobile  fratrum  / — which  have  combined  to  poison  all  the 
relations  of  life,  whether  public  or  private.  The  second  of  this 
noble  pair  extends  its  influence  much  farther  than  at  first 
appears  to  be  the  case,  as  being  not  merely  a  physical,  but 
also  a  moral  disease.  From  the  time  that  poisoned  arrows 
have  been  found  in  Cupid's  quiver,  an  estranging,  hostile,  nay, 
devilish  element  has  entered  into  the  relations  of  men  and 
women,  like  a  sinister  thread  of  fear  and  mistmst  in  the  warp 
and  woof  of  their  intercourse  ;  indiredlly  shaking  the  founda- 
tions of  human  fellowship,  and  so  more  or  less  affedling  the 
whole  tenor  of  existence.  But  it  would  be  beside  my  present 
purpose  to  pursue  the  subject  further. 

An  influence  analogous  to  this,  though  working  on  other 
lines,  is  exerted  by  the  principle  of  knightly  honor, — that 
solemn  farce,  unknown  to  the  ancient  world,  which  makes 
modern  society  stiff",  gloomy  and  timid,  forcing  us  to  keep  the 
stri6lest  watch  on  every  word  that  falls.  Nor  is  this  all.  The 
principle  is  a  universal  Minotaur  ;  and  the  goodly  company  of 
the  sons  of  noble  houses  which  it  demands  in  yearly  tribute, 
comes,  not  from  one  country  alone,  as  of  old,  but  from  every 
land  in  Europe.  It  is  high  time  to  make  a  regular  attack  upon 
this  foolish  system  ;  and  this  is  what  I  am  trying  to  do  now. 
Would  that  these  two  monsters  of  the  modern  world  might 
disappear  before  the  end  of  the  century  ! 

Let  us  hope  that  medicine  may  be  able  to  find  some  means 
of  preventing  the  one,  and  that,  by  clearing  our  ideas,  phi- 
losophy may  put  an  end  to  the  other  :  for  it  is  only  by  clearing 
our  ideas  that  the  evil  can  be  eradicated.  Governments  have 
tried  to  do  so  by  legislation,  and  failed. 


84  THE    WISDOM   OF    LIFE. 

Still,  if  they  are  really  concerned  to  stop  the  dueling  system  ; 
and  if  the  small  success  that  has  attended  their  efforts  is  really 
due  only  to  their  inability  to  cope  with  the  evil,  I  do  not  mind 
proposing  a  law  the  success  of  which  I  am  prepared  to  guar- 
antee. It  will  involve  no  sanguinary  measures,  and  can  be  put 
into  operation  without  recourse  either  to  the  scaffold  or  the 
gallows,  or  to  imprisonment  for  life.  It  is  a  small  homoeopathic 
pilule,  with  no  serious  after  effe6ls.  If  any  man  send  or  accept 
a  challenge,  let  the  corporal  take  him  before  the  guard  house, 
and  there  give  him,  in  broad  daylight,  twelve  strokes  with  a 
stick  <l /a  Chinoise ;  a  non-commissioned  officer  or  a  private 
to  receive  six.  If  a  duel  has  a6lually  taken  place,  the  usual 
criminal  proceedings  should  be  instituted. 

A  person  with  knightly  notions  might,  perhaps,  obje6l  that, 
if  such  a  punishment  were  carried  out,  a  man  of  honor  would 
possibly  shoot  himself;  to  which  I  should  answer  that  it  is 
better  for  a  fool  like  that  to  shoot  himself  rather  than  other 
people.  However,  I  know  very  well  that  governments  are  not 
really  in  earnest  about  putting  down  dueling.  Civil  officials, 
and  much  more  so,  officers  in  the  army,  (except  those  in 
the  highest  positions),  are  paid  most  inadequately  for  the  ser- 
vices they  perform  ;  and  the  deficiency  is  made  up  by  honor, 
which  is  represented  by  titles  and  orders,  and,  in  general^  by 
the  system  of  rank  and  distinction.  The  duel  is,  so  to  speak, 
a  very  serviceable  extra-horse  for  people  of  rank  :  so  they  are 
trained  in  the  knowledge  of  it  at  the  universities.  The  accidents 
which  happen  to  those  who  use  it  make  up  in  blood  for  the 
deficiency  of  the  pay. 

Just  to  complete  the  discussion,  let  me  here  mention  the 
subje6l  o{  national  honor.  It  is  the  honor  of  a  nation  as  a  unit 
in  the  aggregate  of  nations.  And  as  there  is  no  court  to  appeal 
to  but  the  court  of  force  ;  and  as  every  nation  must  be  prepared 
to  defend  its  own  interests,  the  honor  of  a  nation  consists  in 
establishing  the  opinion,  not  only  that  it  may  be  trusted  (its 
credit),  but  also  that  it  is  to  be  feared.  An  attack  upon  its 
rights  must  never  be  allowed  to  pass  unheeded.  It  is  a  com- 
bination of  civic  and  knightly  honor. 


FAME.  85 

Section^. — Fame. 

Under  the  heading  of  place  in  the  estimation  of  the  world 
we  have  put  Fame ;  and  this  we  must  now  proceed  to  con- 
sider. 

Fame  and  honor  are  twins  ;  and  twins,  too,  like  Castor  and 
Pollux,  of  whom  the  one  was  mortal  and  the  other  was  not. 
Fame  is  the  undying  brother  of  ephemeral  honor.  I  speak,  of 
course,  of  the  highest  kind  of  fame,  that  is,  of  fame  in  the  true 
and  genuine  sense  of  the  word  ;  for,  to  be  sure,  there  are  many- 
sorts  of  fame,  some  of  which  last  but  a  day.  Honor  is  con- 
cerned merely  with  such  qualities  as  everyone  may  be  expelled 
to  show  under  similar  circumstances  ;  fame  only  of  those  which 
cannot  be  required  of  any  man.  Honor  is  of  qualities  which 
everyone  has  a  right  to  attribute  to  himself ;  fame  only  of  those 
which  should  be  left  to  others  to  attribute.  Whilst  our  honor 
extends  as  far  as  people  have  knowledge  of  us  ;  fame  runs  in 
advance,  and  makes  us  known  wherever  it  finds  its  way.  Every 
one  can  make  a  claim  to  honor  ;  very  few  to  fame,  as  being 
attainable  only  in  virtue  of  extraordinary  achievements. 

These  achievements  may  be  of  two  kinds,  either  actions  or 
works;  and  so  to  fame  there  are  two  paths  open.  On  the  path 
of  actions,  a  great  heart  is  the  chief  recommendation  ;  on  that 
of  works,  a  great  head.  Each  of  the  two  paths  has  its  own 
peculiar  advantages  and  detriments;  and  the  chief  difference 
between  them  is  that  actions  are  fleeting,  while  works  remain. 
The  influence  of  an  a<5lion,  be  it  never  so  noble,  can  last  but  a 
short  time  ;  but  a  work  of  genius  is  a  living  influence,  beneficial 
and  ennobling  throughout  the  ages.  All  that  can  remain  of 
a<5lions  is  a  memory,  and  that  becomes  weak  and  disfigured 
by  time — a  matter  of  indifference  to  us,  until  at  last  it  is  extin- 
guished altogether ;  unless,  indeed,  history  takes  it  up,  and 
presents  it,  fossilized,  to  posterity.  Works  are  immortal  in 
themselves,  and  once  committed  to  writing,  may  live  for  ever. 
Of  Alexander  the  Great  we  have  but  the  name  and  the  record"; 
but  Plato  and  Aristotle,  Homer  and  Horace  are  alive,  and  as 
diredlly  at  work  to-day  as  they  were  in  their  own  life-time. 


86  THE  WISDOM  OF  LIFE. 

The  Vedas,  and  their  Upanishads,  are  still  with  us  :  but  of  all 
contemporaneous  a<Sions  not  a  trace  has  come  down  to  us.* 

Another  disadvantage  under  which  a6lions  labor  is  that  they 
depend  upon  chance  for  the  possibility  of  coming  into  exist- 
ence ;  and  hence,  the  fame  they  win  does  not  flow  entirely  from 
their  intrinsic  value,  but  also  from  the  circumstances  which 
happened  to  lend  them  importance  and  lustre.  Again,  the 
fame  of  actions,  if,  as  in  war,  they  are  purely  personal,  depends 
upon  the  testimony  of  fewer  witnesses ;  and  these  are  not 
always  present,  and  even  if  present,  are  not  always  just  or  un- 
biased observers.  This  disadvantage,  however,  is  counter- 
balanced by  the  fact  that  actions  have  the  advantage  of  being 
of  a  pra6lical  character,  and,  therefore,  within  the  range  of 
general  human  intelligence  ;  so  that  once  the  facts  have  been 
correctly  reported,  justice  is  immediately  done  ;  unless,  indeed, 
the  motive  underlying  the  action  is  not  at  first  properly  under- 
stood or  appreciated.  No  action  can  be  really  understood 
apart  from  the  motive  which  prompted  it. 

It  is  just  the  contrary  with  works.  Their  inception  does  not 
depend  upon  chance,  but  wholly  and  entirely  upon  their  author  ; 
and  whoever  they  are  in  and  for  themselves,  that  they  remain 
as  long  as  they  live.  Further,  there  is  a  difficulty  in  properly 
judging  them,  which  becomes  all  the  harder,  the  higher  their 

'  Accordinffly  it  is  a  poor  compliment,  though  sometimes  a  fashion- 
able one,  to  try  to  pay  honor  to  a  work  by  calling  it  an  adion.  For 
a  work  is  something  essentially  higher  in  its  nature.  An  action  is 
always  something  based  on  motive,  and,  therefore,  fragmentary  and 
fleeting — a  part,  in  fact,  of  that  Will  which  is  the  universal  and  original 
element  in  the  constitution  of  the  world.  But  a  great  and  beautiful 
work  has  a  permanent  character,  as  being  of  universal  significance, 
and  sprung  from  the  Intellect,  which  rises,  like  a  perfume,  above  the 
faults  and  follies  of  the  world  of  Will. 

The  fame  of  a  great  action  has  this  advantage,  that  it  generally 
starts  with  a  loud  explosion  ;  so  loud,  indeed,  as  to  be  heard  all  over 
Europe :  whereas  the  fame  of  a  great  work  is  slow  and  gradual  in  its 
beginnings  ;  the  noise  it  makes  is  at  first  slight,  but  it  goes  on  grow- 
ing greater,  until  at  last,  after  a  hundred  years  perhaps,  it  attains  its 
fiill  force  ;  but  then  it  remains,  because  the  works  remain,  for  thou- 
sands of  years.  But  in  the  other  case,  when  the  first  explosion  is 
over,  the  noise  it  makes  grows  less  and  less,  and  is  heard  by  fewer 
and  fewer  persons  ;  until  it  ends  by  the  action  having  only  a  shadowy 
€xistence  in  the  pages  of  history. 


FAMEw  S7 

character  ;  often  there  are  no  persons  competent  to  understand 
the  work,  and  often  no  unbiased  or  honest  critics.  Their  fame, 
however,  does  not  depend  upon  one  judge  only ;  they  can 
enter  an  appeal  to  another.  In  the  case  of  actions,  as  I  have 
said,  it  is  only  their  memory  which  comes  down  to  posterity, 
and  then  only  in  the  traditional  form  ;  but  works  are  handed 
down  themselves,  and,  except  when  parts  of  them  have  been 
lost,  in  the  form  in  which  they  first  appeared.  In  this  case 
there  is  no  room  for  any  disfigurement  of  the  facfts  ;  and  any 
circumstances  which  may  have  prejudiced  them  in  their  origin, 
fall  away  with  the  lapse  of  time.  Nay,  it  is  often  only  after  the 
lapse  of  time  that  the  persons  really  competent  to  judge  them 
appear — exceptional  critics  sitting  in  judgment  on  exceptional 
works,  and  giving  their  weighty  verdidls  in  succession.  These 
collectively  form  a  perfectly  just  appreciation  ;  and  though 
there  are  cases  where  it  has  taken  some  hundreds  of  years  to 
form  it,  no  further  lapse  of  time  is  able  to  reverse  the  verdi6l ; 
— so  secure  and  inevitable  is  the  fame  of  a  great  work. 

Whether  authors  ever  live  to  see  the  dawn  of  their  fame 
depends  upon  the  chance  of  circumstance ;  and  the  higher 
and  more  important  their  works  are,  the  less  likelihood  there 
is  of  their  doing  so.  That  was  an  incomparable  fine  saying  of 
Seneca's,  that  fame  follows  merit  as  surely  as  the  body  casts  a 
shadow  ;  sometimes  falling  in  front,  and  sometimes  behind. 
And  he  goes  on  to  remark  that  though  the  envy  of  contempo- 
raries be  shown  by  universal  silence,  there  will  come  those  who 
will  judge  without  enmity  or  favor.  From  this  remark  it  is 
manifest  that  even  in  Seneca's  age  there  were  rascals  who 
understood  the  art  of  suppressing  merit  by  maliciously  ignor- 
ing its  existence,  and  of  concealing  good  work  from  the  public 
in  order  to  favor  the  bad  :  it  is  an  art  well  understood  in  our 
day,  too,  manifesting  itself,  both  then  and  now,  in  an  envious 
conspiracy  of  silence. 

As  a  general  rule,  the  longer  a  man' s  fame  is  likely  to  last, 
the  later  it  will  be  in  coming  ;  for  all  excellent  produ(5ls  require 
time  for  their  development.  The  fame  which  lasts  to  posterity 
is  like  an  oak,  of  very  slow  growth  ;  and  that  which  endures 


88  THE   WISDOM   OF    LIFE. 

but  a  little  while,  like  plants  which  spring  up  in  a  year  and 
then  die  ;  whilst  false  fame  is  like  a  fungus,  shooting  up  in  a 
night  and  perishing  as  soon. 

And  why  ?  For  this  reason  ;  the  more  a  man  belongs  to 
posterity,  in  other  words,  to  humanity  in  general,  the  more 
of  an  alien  he  is  to  his  contemporaries  ;  since  his  work  is  not 
meant  for  them  as  such,  but  only  for  them  in  so  far  as  they 
form  part  of  mankind  at  large  ;  there  is  none  of  that  familiar 
local  color  about  his  productions  which  would  appeal  to 
them  ;  and  so  what  he  does,  fails  of  recognition  because  it  is 
strange. 

People  are  more  likely  to  appreciate  the  man  who  serves  the 
circumstances  of  his  own  brief  hour,  or  the  temper  of  the  mo- 
ment,— belonging  to  it,  living  and  dying  with  it. 

The  general  history  of  art  and  literature  shows  that  the 
highest  achievements  of  the  human  mind  are,  as  a  rule,  not 
favorably  received  at  first ;  but  remain  in  obscurity  until  they 
win  notice  from  intelligence  of  a  higher  order,  by  whose 
influence  they  are  brought  into  a  position  which  they  then 
maintain,  in  virtue  of  the  authority  thus  given  them. 

If  the  reason  of  this  should  be  asked,  it  will  be  found  that 
ultimately,  a  man  can  really  understand  and  appreciate  those 
things  only  which  are  of  like  nature  with  himself.  The  dull 
person  will  like  what  is  dull,  and  the  common  person  what  is 
common  ;  a  man  whose  ideas  are  mixed  will  be  attracted  by 
confusion  of  thought  ;  and  folly  will  appeal  to  him  who  has  no 
brains  at  all  ;  but  best  of  all,  a  man  will  like  his  own  works,  as 
being  of  a  chara6ler  thoroughly  at  one  with  himself.  This  is 
a  truth  as  old  as  Epicharmus  of  fabulous  memory — 

Qavftaarhv  oifilv  tori  fie  Tuvd"  ovtu  Xeyeiv 
Kal  uvdilveiv  avroloiv  avrovg,  ko.)  doKiiv 
Ka/,fjf  n£(f>vKEvar  koI  yup  6  kvuv  kvvi 
Ku2,AiaTov  elfiev  tpaiverai,  kuI  j3uvc  (iot 
'Ovof  6'  livif)  KuXkiaTov  \_eaTii>'\,  vq  6'  it. 

The  sense  of  this  passage — for  it  should  not  be  lost — is  that  we 
should  not  be  surprised  if  people  are  pleased  with  themselves, 
and  fancy  that  they  are  in  good  case  ;  for  to  a  dog  the  best 


FAME.  89 

thing  in  the  world  is  a  dog  ;  to  an  ox,  an  ox ;  to  an  ass,  an 
ass  ;  and  to  a  sow,  a  sow. 

The  strongest  arm  is  unavailing  to  give  impetus  to  a  feather- 
weight ;  for,  instead  of  speeding  on  its  way  and  hitting  its  mark 
with  effe6l,  it  will  soon  fall  to  the  ground,  having  expended 
what  little  energy  was  given  to  it,  and  possessing  no  mass  of 
its  own  to  be  the  vehicle  of  momentum.  So  it  is  with  great 
and  noble  thoughts,  nay,  with  the  very  masterpieces  of  genius, 
when  there  are  none  but  little,  weak,  and  perverse  minds  to 
appreciate  them, — a  fa<5t  which  has  been  deplored  by  a  chorus 
of  the  wise  in  all  ages.  Jesus,  the  son  of  Sirach,  for  instance, 
declares  that  He  that  telleth  a  tale  to  a  fool  speaketh  to  one  in 
slumber :  when  he  hath  told  his  tale,  he  will  say,  What  is  the 
matter  f^  And  Hamlet  says,  A  knavish  speech  sleeps  in  a 
fool's  ear.^  And  Goethe  is  of  the  same  opinion,  that  a  dull 
ear  mocks  at  the  wisest  word, 

Das  glucklichste  Wort  es  wird  verhohnt, 
Wenn  der  H'drer  ein  Schiefohr  ist: 

and  again,  that  we  should  not  be  discouraged  if  people  are 
stupid,  for  you  can  make  no  rings  if  you  throw  your  stone 
into  a  marsh. 

Du  Tvirkest  nicht,  Alles  bleibt  so  stump/: 

Sei  guter  Dinge  ! 
Der  Stein  in  Sump/ 

Macht  keine  Ri,nge. 

Lichtenberg  asks  :  When  a  head  and  a  book  come  into  collision, 
and  one  sounds  hollow,  is  it  always  the  book  ?  And  in  another 
place  :  Works  like  this  are  as  a  mirror ;  if  an  ass  looks  in, you 
cannot  expe^  an  apostle  to  look  out.  We  should  do  well  to 
remember  old  Gellert's  fine  and  touching  lament,  that  the  best 
gifts  of  all  find  the  fewest  admirers,  and  that  most  men  mistake 
the  bad  for  the  good, — a  daily  evil  that  nothing  can  prevent, 
like  a  plague  which  no  remedy  can  cure.  There  is  but  one 
thing  to  be  done,  though  how  difficult ! — the  foolish  must  be- 
come wise, — and  that  they  can  never  be.     The  value  of  life 

'  Ecclesiasticus,  xxii.,  8. 
*  Act  iv.,  So.  2. 


90  THE   WISDOM    OF    LIFE. 

they  never  know  ;  they  see  with  the  outer  eye  but  never  with 
the  mind,  and  praise  the  trivial  because  the  good  is  strange 
to  them  : — 

Nie  kennen  sie  den  Werth  der  Dinge, 
Ihr  Auge  schliesst,  nicht  ihr  Ver stand; 

Sie  lobcn  ewig  das  Geringe 
Wieil  sie  das  Gute  nie  gekannt. 

To  the  intelledual  incapacity  which,  as  Goethe  says,  fails  to 
recognize  and  appreciate  the  good  which  exists,  must  be  added 
something  which  comes  into  play  everywhere,  the  moral  base- 
ness of  mankind,  here  taking  the  form  of  envy.  The  new 
fame  that  a  man  wins  raises  him  afresh  over  the  heads  of  his 
fellows,  who  are  thus  degraded  in  proportion.  All  conspicuous 
merit  is  obtained  at  the  cost  of  those  who  possess  none  ;  or, 
as  Goethe  has  it  in  the  West-ostlicher  Divan,  another's  praise 
is  one's  own  depreciation — 

Wenn  wir  Andern  Ehre  geben 
Miissen  wir  uns  selbst  entadeln. 

We  see,  then,  how  it  is  that,  whatever  be  the  form  which 
excellence  takes,  mediocrity,  the  common  lot  of  by  far  the 
greatest  number,  is  leagued  against  it  in  a  conspiracy  to  resist, 
and  if  possible,  to  suppress  it.  The  pass-word  of  this  league 
is  d,  bas  le  nierite.  Nay  more  ;  those  who  have  done  some- 
thing themselves,  and  enjoy  a  certain  amount  of  fame,  do  not 
care  about  the  appearance  of  a  new  reputation,  because  its 
success  is  apt  to  throw  theirs  into  the  shade.  Hence,  Goethe 
declares  that  if  we  had  to  depend  for  our  life  upon  the  favor  of 
others,  we  should  never  have  lived  at  all  ;  from  their  desire  to 
appear  important  themselves,  people  gladly  ignore  our  very 
existence : — 

Hdtte  ich  ge zander t  zu  werden, 

Bis  man  mir's  Leben  geognnt, 

Ich  ware  noch  nicht  auf  Erden, 

Wie  ihr  begreifen  kbnnt, 

H'enn  ihr  seht,  wie  sie  sich  geberden, 

Die,  um  etwas  zu  scheinen, 

Mich  genie  tnochten  verneinen. 


FAME.  91 

Honor,  on  the  contrary,  generally  meets  with  fair  apprecia- 
tion, and  is  not  exposed  to  the  onslaught  of  envy ;  nay,  every 
man  is  credited  with  the  possession  of  it  until  the  contrary  is 
proved.  But  fame  has  to  be  won  in  despite  of  envy,  and  the 
tribunal  which  awards  the  laurel  is  composed  of  judges  biased 
against  the  applicant  from  the  very  first.  Honor  is  something 
which  we  are  able  and  ready  to  share  with  everyone  ;  fame 
suffers  encroachment  and  is  rendered  more  unattainable  in 
proportion  as  more  people  come  by  it.  Further,  the  difficulty 
of  winning  fame  by  any  given  work  stands  in  inverse  ratio  to 
the  number  of  people  who  are  likely  to  read  it ;  and  hence  it 
is  so  much  harder  to  become  famous  as  the  author  of  a  learned 
work  than  as  a  writer  who  aspires  only  to  amuse.  It  is  hardest 
of  all  in  the  case  of  philosophical  works,  because  the  result  at 
which  they  aim  is  rather  vague,  and,  at  the  same  time,  useless 
from  a  material  point  of  view  ;  they  appeal  chiefly  to  readers 
who  are  working  on  the  same  lines  themselves. 

It  is  clear,  then,  from  what  I  have  said  as  to  the  difficulty  of 
winning  fame,  that  those  who  labor,  not  out  of  love  for  their 
subje6l,  nor  from  pleasure  in  pursuing  it,  but  under  the  stimu- 
lus of  ambition,  rarely  or  never  leave  mankind  a  legacy  of 
immortal  works.  The  man  who  seeks  to  do  what  is  good  and 
genuine,  must  avoid  what  is  bad,  and  be  ready  to  defy  the 
opinions  of  the  mob,  nay,  even  to  despise  it  and  its  misleaders. 
Hence  the  truth  of  the  remark,  (especially  insisted  upon  by 
Osorius  de  Gloria),  that  fame  shuns  those  who  seek  it,  and 
seeks  those  who  shun  it ;  for  the  one  adapt  themselves  to  the 
taste  of  their  contemporaries,  and  the  others  work  in  defiance 
of  it. 

But,  difficult  though  it  be  to  acquire  fame,  it  is  an  easy 
thing  to  keep  when  once  acquired.  Here,  again,  fame  is  in 
direct  opposition  to  honor,  with  which  everyone  is  presumably 
to  be  accredited.  Honor  has  not  to  be  won  ;  it  must  only  not 
be  lost.  But  there  lies  the  difficulty  !  For  by  a  single  un- 
worthy adtion,  it  is  gone  irretrievably.  But  fame,  in  the 
proper  sense  of  the  word,  can  never  disappear  ;  for  the  a6lion 
or  work  by  which  it  was  acquired  can  never  be  undone  ;  and 


92  THE  WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

fame  attaches  to  its  author,  even  though*  he  does  nothing  to 
deserve  it  anew.  The  fame  which  vanishes,  or  is  outlived, 
proves  itself  thereby  to  be  spurious,  in  other  words,  unmerited, 
and  due  to  a  momentary  over-estimate  of  a  man's  work  ;  not 
to  speak  of  the  kind  of  fame  which  Hegel  enjoyed,  and  which 
Lichtenberg  describes  as  trumpeted  forth  by  a  clique  of  admir- 
ing undergraduates — the  resounding  echo  of  empty  heads ; — 
such  a  fame  as  will  m,ake posterity  smile  when  it  lights  upon  a 
grotesque  architecture  of  words ^  a  fine  nest  with  the  birds  long 
ago  flown  ;  it  will  knock  at  the  door  of  this  decayed  struSlure 
of  conventionalities  and  find  it  utterly  empty  I — not  even  a  trace 
of  thought  there  to  invite  the  passer-by , 

The  truth  is  that  fame  means  nothing  but  what  a  man  is  in 
Gomparison  with  others.  It  is  essentially  relative  in  character, 
and  therefore  only  indirectly  valuable  ;  for  it  vanishes  the  mo- 
ment other  people  become  what  the  famous  man  is.  Absolute 
value  can  be  predicated  only  of  what  a  man  possesses  under 
any  and  all  circumstances, — here,  what  a  man  is  direAly  and 
in  himself  It  is  the  possession  of  a  great  heart  or  a  great 
head,  and  not  the  mere  fame  of  it,  which  is  worth  having,  and 
conducive  to  happiness.  Not  fame,  but  that  which  deserves 
to  be  famous,  is  what  a  man  should  hold  in  esteem.  This  is, 
as  it  were,  the  true  underlying  substance,  and  fame  is  only  an 
accident,  affeding  its  subject  chiefly  as  a  kind  of  external 
symptom,  which  serves  to  confirm  his  own  opinion  of  himself 
Light  is  not  visible  unless  it  meets  with  something  to  reflect 
it ;  and  talent  is  sure  of  itself  only  when  its  fame  is  noised 
abroad.  But  fame  is  not  a  certain  symptom  of  merit ;  because 
you  can  have  the  one  without  the  other  ;  or,  as  Lessing  nicely 
puts  it.  Some  people  obtain  fame,  and  others  deserve  it. 

It  would  be  a  miserable  existence  which  should  make  its 
value  or  want  of  value  depend  upon  what  other  people  think  ; 
but  such  would  be  the  life  of  a  hero  or  a  genius  if  its  worth 
consisted  in  fame,  that  is,  in  the  applause  of  the  world.  Every 
man  lives  and  exists  on  his  own  account,  and,  therefore, 
mainly  in  and  for  himself;  and  what  he  is  and  the  whole 
manner  of  his  being  concern  himself  more  than  anyone  else  ; 


FAME.  93 

SO  if  he  is  not  worth  much  in  this  respect,  he  cannot  be  worth 
much  otherwise.  The  idea  which  other  people  form  of  his 
existence  is  something  secondary,  derivative,  exposed  to  all 
the  chances  of  fate,  and  in  the  end  affecting  him  but  very  in- 
directly. Besides,  other  people's  heads  are  a  wretched  place 
to  be  the  home  of  a  man's  true  happiness — a  fanciful  happiness 
perhaps,  but  not  a  real  one. 

And  what  a  mixed  company  inhabits  the  Temple  of  Uni- 
versal Fame! — generals, ministers,  charlatans,  jugglers,  dancers, 
singers,  millionaires  and  Jews  !  It  is  a  temple  in  which  more 
sincere  recognition,  more  genuine  esteem,  is  given  to  the 
several  excellences  of  such  folk,  than  to  superiority  of  mind, 
even  of  a  high  order,  which  obtains  from  the  great  majority 
only  a  verbal  acknowledgment. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  human  happiness,  fame  is,  surely, 
nothing  but  a  very  rare  and  delicate  morsel  for  the  appetite 
that  feeds  on  pride  and  vanity — an  appetite  which,  however 
carefully  concealed,  exists  to  an  immoderate  degree  in  evely 
man,  and  is,  perhaps  strongest  of  all  in  those  who  set  their 
hearts  on  becoming  famous  at  any  cost.  Such  people  generally 
have  to  wait  some  time  in  uncertainty  as  to  their  own  value, 
before  the  opportunity  comes  which  will  put  it  to  the  proof  and 
let  other  people  see  what  they  are  made  of;  but  until  then, 
they  feel  as  if  they  were  suffering  secret  injustice.* 

But,  as  I  explained  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter,  an  un- 
reasonable value  is  set  upon  other  people's  opinion,  and  one 
quite  disproportionate  to  its  real  worth.  Hobbes  has  some 
strong  remarks  on  this  subject ;  and  no  doubt  he  is  quite 
right.  Mental  pleasure,  he  writes,  and  ecstasy  of  any  kmd, 
arise  when,  on  comparing  ourselves  with  others,  we  cotne  to  the 
conclusion  that  we  may  think  well  of  ourselves.  So  we  can 
easily  understand  the  great  value  which  is  always  attached  to 
fame,  as  worth  any  sacrifices  if  there  is  the  slightest  hope  of 
attaining  it. 

>  Our  greatest  pleasure  consists  in  being  admired  ;  but  those  who 
admire  us,  even  if  they  have  every  reason  to  do  so,  are  slow  to  express 
their  sentiments.  Hence  he  is  the  happiest  man  who,  no  matter  how, 
manages  sincerely  to  admire  himself — so  long  as  other  people  leave 
him  alone. 


94  THE   WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 

(  That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind ) 

To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days. ' 

And  again  : 

How  hard  it  is  to  climb 
The  heights  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines  afar! 

We  can  thus  understand  how  it  is  that  the  vainest  people 
in  the  world  are  always  talking  about  la  gloire,  with  the  most 
implicit  faith  in  it  as  a  stimulus  to  great  a<5lions  and  great 
works.  But  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  fame  is  something 
secondary  in  its  character,  a  mere  echo  or  reflection — as  it 
were,  a  shadow  or  symptom — of  merit :  and,  in  any  case, 
what  excites  admiration  must  be  of  more  value  than  the  admi- 
ration itself.  The  truth  is  that  a  man  is  made  happy,  not  by 
fame,  but  by  that  which  brings  him  tame,  by  his  merits,  or  to 
speak  more  correctly,  by  the  disposition  and  capacity  from 
which  his  merits  proceed,  whether  they  be  moral  or  intellectual. 
The  best  side  of  a  man's  nature  must  of  necessity  be  more 
important  for  him  than  for  anyone  else  :  the  reflection  of  it, 
the  opinion  which  exists  in  the  heads  of  others,  is  a  matter 
that  can  affe6l  him  only  in  a  very  subordinate  degree.  He 
who  deserves  fame  without  getting  it  possesses  by  far  the 
more  important  element  of  happiness,  which  should  console 
him  for  the  loss  of  the  other.  It  is  not  that  a  man  is  thought 
to  be  great  by  masses  of  incompetent  and  often  infatuated 
people,  but  that  he  really  is  great,  which  should  move  us  to 
envy  his  position ;  and  his  happiness  lies,  not  in  the  fa6t  that 
posterity  will  hear  of  him,  but  that  he  is  the  creator  of  thoughts 
worthy  to  be  treasured  up  and  studied  for  hundreds  of  years. 

Besides,  if  a  man  has  done  this,  he  possesses  something 
which  cannot  be  wrested  from  him  ;  and,  unlike  fame,  it  is  a 
possession  dependent  entirely  upon  himself  If  admiration 
were  his  chief  aim,  there  would  be  nothing  in  him  to  admire. 
This  is  just  what  happens  in  the  case  of  false,  that  is,  un- 
merited, fame  ;  for  its  recipient  lives  upon  it  without  actually 
possessing  the  solid  substratum  of  which  fame  is  the  outward 

'  Milton.    Lycidas. 


FAME.  95 

and  visible  sign.  False  fame  must  often  put  its  possessor  out 
of  conceit  with  himself ;  for  the  time  may  come  when,  in  spite 
of  the  illusions  borne  of  self-love,  he  will  feel  giddy  on  the 
heights  which  he  was  never  meant  to  climb,  or  look  upon 
himself  as  spurious  coin;  and  in  the  anguish  of  threatened 
discovery  and  well-merited  degradation,  he  will  read  the 
sentence  of  posterity  on  the  foreheads  of  the  wise — like  a  man 
who  owes  his  property  to  a  forged  will. 

The  truest  fame,  the  fame  that  comes  after  death,  is  never 
heard  of  by  its  recipient  ;  and  yet  he  is  called  a  happy 
man. 

His  happiness  lay  both  in  the  possession  of  those  great  quali- 
ties which  won  him  fame,  and  in  the  opportunity  that  was 
granted  him  of  developing  them — the  leisure  he  had  to  a6l  as 
he  pleased,  to  dedicate  himself  to  his  favorite  pursuits.  It  is 
only  work  done  from  the  heart  that  ever  gains  the  laurel. 

Greatness  of  soul,  or  wealth  of  intelle6l,  is  what  makes  a 
man  happy — intelledt,  such  as,  when  stamped  on  its  produc- 
tions, will  receive  the  admiration  of  centuries  to  come, — 
thoughts  which  made  him  happy  at  the  time,  and  will  in  their 
turn  be  a  source  of  study  and  delight  to  the  noblest  minds  of 
the  most  remote  posterity.  The  value  of  posthumous  fame 
lies  in  deserving  it ;  and  this  is  its  own  reward.  Whether 
works  destined  to  fame  attain  it  in  the  lifetime  of  their  author  is 
a  chance  affair,  of  no  very  great  importance.  For  the  average 
man  has  no  critical  power  of  his  own,  and  is  absolutely  inca- 
pable of  appreciating  the  difficulty  of  a  great  work.  People 
are  always  swayed  by  authority  ;  and  where  fame  is  wide- 
spread, it  means  that  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  take  it  on 
faith  alone.  If  a  man  is  famed  far  and  wide  in  his  own  life- 
time, he  will,  if  he  is  wise,  not  set  too  much  value  upon  it, 
because  it  is  no  more  than  the  echo  of  a  few  voices,  which  the 
chance  of  a  day  has  touched  in  his  favor. 

Would  a  musician  feel  flattered  by  the  loud  applause  of  an 
audience  if  he  knew  that  they  were  nearly  all  deaf,  and  that,  to 
conceal  their  infirmity,  they  set  to  work  to  clap  vigorously  as 
soon  as  ever  they  saw  one  or  two  persons  applauding  ?    And 


rSWTT^ 


gib  THE   WISDOM   OF   LIFE. 

what  would  he  say  if  he  got  to  know  that  those  one  or  two 
persons  had  often  taken  bribes  to  secure  the  loudest  applause 
for  the  poorest  player  ! 

It  is  easy  to  see  why  contemporary  praise  so  seldom  de- 
celopes  into  posthumous  fame.  D'Alembert,  in  an  extremely 
fine  description  of  the  temple  of  literary  fame,  remarks  that 
the  san6tuary  of  the  temple  is  inhabited  by  the  great  dead, 
who  during  their  life  had  no  place  there,  and  by  a  very  few 
living  persons,  who  are  nearly  all  ejected  on  their  death.  Let 
me  remark,  in  passing,  that  to  erect  a  monument  to  a  man  in 
his  lifetime  is  as  much  as  declaring  that  posterity  is  not  to  be 
trusted  in  its  judgment  of  him.  If  a  man  does  happen  to  see 
his  own  true  fame,  it  can  very  rarely  be  before  he  is  old,  though 
there  have  been  artists  and  musicians  who  have  been  exceptions 
to  this  rule,  but  very  few  philosophers.  This  is  confirmed  by 
the  portraits  of  people  celebrated  by  their  works  ;  for  most  of 
them  are  taken  only  after  their  subje6ls  have  attained  celebrity, 
generally  depi6ling  them  as  old  and  grey  ;  more  especially  if 
philosophy  has  been  the  work  of  their  lives.  From  a  eudae- 
monistic  standpoint,  this  is  a  very  proper  arrangement ;  as 
fame  and  youth  are  too  much  for  a  mortal  at  one  and  the  same 
time.  Life  is  such  a  poor  business  that  the  stri6lest  economy 
must  be  exercised  in  its  good  things.  Youth  has  enough  and 
to  spare  in  itself,  and  must  rest  content  with  what  it  has.  But 
when  the  delights  and  joys  of  life  fall  away  in  old  age,  as  the 
leaves  from  a  tree  in  autumn,  fame  buds  forth  opportunely,  like 
a  plant  that  is  green  in  winter.  Fame  is,  as  it  were,  the  fruit 
that  must  grow  all  the  summer  before  it  can  be  enjoyed  at 
Yule.  There  is  no  greater  consolation  in  age  than  the  feeling 
of  having  put  the  whole  force  of  one's  youth  into  works  which 
still  remain  young. 

Finally,  let  us  examine  a  little  more  closely  the  kinds  of 
fame  which  attach  to  various  intelle6lual  pursuits  ;  for  it  is 
with  fame  of  this  sort  that  my  remarks  are  more  immediately 
concerned. 

I  think  it  may  be  said  broadly  that  the  intelle<Slual  superior- 
ity it  denotes  consists  in  forming  theories,  that  is,  new  com 


FAME.  97 

binations  of  certain  facts.  These  facts  may  be  of  very  differ- 
ent kinds  ;  but  the  better  they  are  known,  and  the  more 
they  come  within  everyday  experience,  the  greater  and  wider 
will  be  the  fame  which  is  to  be  won  by  theorizing  about 
them. 

For  instance,  if  the  facts  in  question  are  numbers  or  lines  or 
special  branches  of  science,  such  as  physics,  zoology,  botany, 
anatomy,  or  corrupt  passages  in  ancient  authors,  or  unde- 
cipherable inscriptions,  written,  it  may  be,  in  some  unknown 
alphabet,  or  obscure  points  in  history  ;  the  kind  of  fame  which 
may  be  obtained  by  correctly  manipulating  such  facts  will  not 
extend  much  beyond  those  who  make  a  study  of  them — a 
small  number  of  persons,  most  of  whom  live  retired  lives  and 
are  envious  of  others  who  become  famous  in  their  special 
branch  of  knowledge. 

But  if  the  fa6ls  be  such  as  are  known  to  everyone,  for 
example,  the  fundamental  characteristics  of  the  human  mind 
or  the  human  heart,  which  are  shared  by  all  alike  ;  or  the  great 
physical  agencies  which  are  constantly  in  operation  before  our 
eyes,  or  the  general  course  of  natural  laws  ;  the  kind  of  fame 
which  is  to  be  won  by  spreading  the  light  of  a  new  and  mani- 
festly true  theory  in  regard  to  them,  is  such  as  in  time  will 
extend  almost  all  over  the  civilized  world  :  for  if  the  fa6ls  be 
such  as  everyone  can  grasp,  the  theory  also  will  be  generally 
intelligible.  But  the  extent  of  the  fame  will  depend  upon  the 
difficulties  overcome  ;  and  the  more  generally  known  the  fa6ls 
are,  the  harder  it  will  be  to  form  a  theory  that  shall  be  both 
new  and  true  :  because  a  great  many  heads  will  have  been 
occupied  with  them,  and  there  will  be  little  or  no  possibility 
of  saying  anything  that  has  not  been  said  before. 

On  the  other  hand,  fa6ls  which  are  not  accessible  to  every- 
body, and  can  be  got  at  only  after  much  difficulty  and  labor, 
nearly  always  admit  of  new  combinations  and  theories  ;  so 
that,  if  sound  understanding  and  judgment  are  brought  to  bear 
upon  them — qualities  which  do  not  involve  very  high  intel- 
le6lual  power — a  man  may  easily  be  so  fortunate  as  to  light 
upon  some  new  theory  in  regard  to  them  which  shall  be  also 


98  THE    WISDOM    OF   LIFE. 

true.  But  fame  won  on  such  paths  does  not  extend  much 
beyond  those  who  possess  a  knowledge  of  the  fafls  in  question. 
To  solve  problems  of  this  sort  requires,  no  doubt,  a  great  deal 
of  study  and  labor,  if  only  to  get  at  the  fadls  ;  whilst  on  the 
path  where  the  greatest  and  most  widespread  fame  is  to  be 
won,  the  facts  may  be  grasped  without  any  labor  at  all.  But 
just  in  proportion  as  less  labor  is  necessary,  more  talent  or 
genius  is  required  ;  and  between  such  qualities  and  the  drudg- 
ery of  research  no  comparison  is  possible,  in  respe6t  either  of 
their  intrinsic  value,  or  of  the  estimation  in  which  they  are 
held. 

And  so  people  who  feel  that  they  possess  solid  intelle6lual 
capacity  and  a  sound  judgment,  and  yet  cannot  claim  the 
highest  mental  powers,  should  not  be  afraid  of  laborious  study ; 
for  by  its  aid  they  may  work  themselves  above  the  great  mob 
of  humanity  who  have  the  fa6ls  constantly  before  their  eyes, 
and  reach  those  secluded  spots  which  are  accessible  to  learned 
toil. 

For  this  is  a  sphere  where  there  are  infinitely  fewer 
rivals,  and  a  man  of  only  moderate  capacity  may  soon  find  an 
opportunity  of  proclaiming  a  theory  that  shall  be  both  new 
and  true  ;  nay,  the  merit  of  his  discovery  will  partly  rest  upon 
the  difficulty  of  coming  at  the  fa6ls.  But  applause  from  one's 
fellow-students,  who  are  the  only  persons  with  a  knowledge  of 
the  subjeA,  sounds  very  faint  to  the  far-oflf  multitude.  And  if 
we  follow  up  this  sort  of  fame  far  enough,  we  shall  at  last  come 
to  a  point  where  fadls  very  difficult  to  get  at  are  in  themselves 
sufficient  to  lay  a  foundation  of  fame,  without  any  necessity 
for  forming  a  theory ; — travels,  for  instance,  in  remote  and 
little-known  countries,  which  make  a  man  famous  by  what  he 
has  seen,  not  by  what  he  has  thought.  The  great  advantage 
of  this  kind  of  fame  is  that  to  relate  what  one  has  seen,  is 
much  easier  than  to  impart  one's  thoughts,  and  people  are  apt 
to  understand  descriptions  better  than  ideas,  reading  the  one 
more  readily  than  the  other  :  for,  as  Asmus  says, 

ff'hgn  one  goes  forth  a-voyaging 
He  has  a  tale  to  tell. 


FAME.  99 

And  yet,  for  all  that,  a  personal  acquaintance  with  celebrated 
travelers  often  reminds  us  of  a  line  from  Horace — new  scenes 
do  not  always  mean  new  ideas — 

Coeium  non  animum  mutant  qui  trans  mare  currunt.^ 

But  if  a  man  finds  himself  in  possession  of  great  mental 
faculties,  such  as  alone  should  venture  on  the  solution  of  the 
hardest  of  all  problems — those  which  concern  nature  as  a  whole 
and  humanity  in  its  widest  range,  he  will  do  well  to  extend  his 
view  equally  in  all  directions,  without  ever  straying  too  far 
amid  the  intricacies  of  various  by-paths,  or  invading  regions  little 
known  ;  in  other  words,  without  occupying  himself  with  special 
branches  of  knowledge,  to  say  nothing  of  their  petty  details. 
There  is  no  necessity  for  him  to  seek  out  subjedls  difficult  of 
access,  in  order  to  escape  a  crowd  of  rivals  ;  the  common 
obje6ls  of  life  will  give  him  material  for  new  theories  at  once 
serious  and  true  ;  and  the  service  he  renders  will  be  appreci- 
ated by  all  those — and  they  form  a  great  part  of  mankind — 
who  know  the  fa6ls  of  which  he  treats.  What  a  vast  distinc- 
tion there  is  between  students  of  physics,  chemistry,  anatomy, 
mineralogy,  zoology,  philology,  history,  and  the  men  who 
deal  with  the  great  fadls  of  human  life,  the  poet  and  the 
philosopher ! 

>  Epist.  I.  II. 


COUNSELS  AND  MAXIMS. 


Le  bonheur  n'esipas  chose  atsee  :  il  est  iris- 
difficile  de  le  trouver  en  nous,  et  impossible 
de  le  trouver  aiUeurs. 

Chamfort. 


NOTE. 

FOR  convenience  of  publication,  I  have  divided  this  transla- 
tion of  Schopenhauer's  Aphorismen  zur  Lebensweisheit 
into  two  parts  ;  and  for  the  sake  of  appearances,  a  new  series  of 
chapters  has  been  begun  in  the  present  volume.  But  it  should 
be  understood  that  there  is  no  such  division  in  the  original, 
and  that  The  Wisdom  of  Life  and  Counsels  and  Maxims  form  a 
single  treatise,  devoted  to  a  popular  exposition  of  the  author's 
views  on  matter  of  practice.  To  the  former  volume  I  have 
prefixed  some  remarks  which  may  help  the  reader  to  appre- 
ciate the  value  of  Schopenhauer's  teaching,  and  to  determine 
its  relation  to  certain  well-known  theories  of  life. 

T.  B.  S. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGE 

Introduction 7 

I.     General  Rules 9 

II.     Our  Relation  to  Ourselves    .        .        .        .  20 

III.  Our  Relation  to  Others         .        .        .        .59 

IV.  Worldly  Fortune 88 

V.  The  Ages  of  Life 100 


J 


INTRODUCTION. 

IF  my  object  in  these  pages  were  to  present  a  complete 
scheme  of  counsels  and  maxims  for  the  guidance  of  life,  I 
should  have  to  repeat  the  numerous  rules — some  of  them  ex- 
cellent— which  have  been  drawn  up  by  thinkers  of  all  ages, 
from  Theognis  and  Solomon*  down  to  La  Rochefoucauld  ; 
and,  in  so  doing,  I  should  inevitably  entail  upon  the  reader  a 
vast  amount  of  well-worn  commonplace.  But  the  fact  is  that 
in  this  work  I  make  still  less  claim  to  exhaust  my  subject  than 
in  any  other  of  my  writings, 

An  author  who  makes  no  claims  to  completeness  must  also, 
in  a  great  measure,  abandon  any  attempt  at  systematic  arrange- 
ment. For  his  double  loss  in  this  respect,  the  reader  may 
console  himself  by  reflecting  that  a  complete  and  systematic' 
treatment  of  such  a  subject  as  the  guidance  of  life  could  hardly 
fail  to  be  a  very  wearisome  business.  I  have  simply  put  down 
those  of  my  thoughts  which  appear  to  be  worth  communica- 
ting— thoughts  which,  as  far  as  I  know,  have  not  been  uttered, 
or,  at  any  rate,  not  just  in  the  same  form,  by  any  one  else  ;  so 
that  my  remarks  may  be  taken  as  a  supplement  to  what  has 
been  already  achieved  in  the  immense  field. 

However,  by  way  of  introducing  some  sort  of  order  into  the 
great  variety  of  matters  upon  which  advice  will  be  given  in  the 
following  pages,  I  shall  distribute  what  I  have  to  say  under  the 
following  heads:  (i)  general  rules;  (2)  our  relation  to  our- 
selves ;  (3)  our  relation  to  others  ;  and  finally,  (4)  rules  which 
concern  our  manner  of  life  and  our  worldly  circumstances.  I 
shall  conclude  with  some  remarks  on  the  changes  which  the 
various  periods  of  life  produce  in  us. 

>  I  refer  to  the  proverbs  and  maxims  ascribed,  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, to  the  king  of  that  name.  (7) 


COUNSELS  AND  MAXIMS. 

CHAPTER  I. 

GENERAL    RULES. — SECTION    I. 

THE  first  and  foremost  rule  for  the  wise  conduct  of  life 
seems  to  me  to  be  contained  in  a  view  to  which  Aristotle 
parenthetically  refers  in  the  Nichomachean  Ethics :  ^  6  ^povtfioi 
Tb  aXvitov  diuKei  oi  rb  vSv,  or,  as  it  may  be  rendered,  not  pleas- 
ure, but  freedom  from  pain,  is  what  the  wise  man  will  aim,  at. 

The  truth  of  this  remark  turns  upon  the  negative  character 
of  happiness, — the  fact  that  pleasure  is  only  the  negation  of 
pain,  and  that  pain  is  the  positive  element  in  life.  Though  I 
have  given  a  detailed  proof  of  this  proposition  in  my  chief 
work,*  I  may  supply  one  more  illustration  of  it  here,  drawn 
from  a  circumstance  of  daily  occurrence.  Suppose  that,  with 
the  exception  of  some  sore  or  painful  spot,  we  are  physically 
in  a  sound  and  healthy  condition  :  the  pain  of  this  one  spot, 
will  completely  absorb  our  attention,  causing  us  to  lose  the 
sense  of  general  well-being,  and  destroying  all  our  comfort  in 
life.  In  the  same  way,  when  all  our  affairs  but  one  turn  out  as 
we  wish,  the  single  instance  in  which  our  aims  are  frustrated  is 
a  constant  trouble  to  us,  even  though  it  be  something  quite 
trivial.  We  think  a  great  deal  about  it,  and  very  little  about 
those  other  and  more  important  matters  in  which  we  have  been 
successful.  In  both  these  cases  what  has  met  with  resistance 
is  the  will :  in  the  one  case,  as  it  is  objectified  in  the  organism, 
in  the  other,  as  it  presents  itself  in  the  struggle  of  life  ;  and  in 
both,  it  is  plain  that  the  satisfaction  of  the  will  consists  in  noth- 

•  vii.  (ii)  12. 

^Weltals  Wille  undVorstellung.    Vol.  I.,  p.  58.  (9) 


lO  COUNSELS  AND   MAXIMS. 

ing  else  than  that  it  meets  with  no  resistance.  It  is,  therefore,. 
a  satisfaction  which  is  not  directly  felt  ;  at  most,  we  can  become 
conscious  of  it  only  when  we  reflect  upon  our  condition.  But 
that  which  checks  or  arrests  the  will  is  something  positive  ;  it 
proclaims  its  own  presence.  All  pleasure  consists  in  merely 
removing  this  check — in  other  words,  in  freeing  us  from  its 
action  ;  and  hence  pleasure  is  a  state  which  can  never  last  very 
long. 

This  is  the  true  basis  of  the  above  excellent  rule  quoted  from 
Aristotle,  which  bids  us  direct  our  aim,  not  toward  securing 
what  is  pleasurable  and  agreeable  in  life,  but  toward  avoiding, 
as  far  as  possible,  its  innumerable  evils.  If  this  were  not  the 
right  course  to  take,  that  saying  of  Voltaire's,  Happiness  is 
btii  a  dream  and  sorrow  is  real,  would  be  as  false  as  it  is,  in 
fact,  true.  A  man  who  desires  to  make  up  the  book  of  his  life 
and  determine  where  the  balance  of  happiness  lies,  must  put 
down  in  his  accounts,  not  the  pleasures  which  he  has  enjoyed, 
but  the  evils  which  he  has  escaped.  That  is  the  true  method 
of  eudsemonology  ;  for  all  eudaemonology  must  begin  by  rec- 
ognizing that  its  very  name  is  a  euphemism,  and  that  to  live 
happily  only  means  to  live  less  unhappily — to  live  a  tolerable 
life.  There  is  no  doubt  that  life  is  given  us,  not  to  be  enjoyed, 
but  to  be  overcome — to  be  got  over.  There  are  numerous  ex- 
pressions illustrating  this — such  as  degere  vitam,  vita  defungi; 
or  in  Italian,  si  scampa  cost ;  or  in  German,  man  muss  suchen 
durchzukommen  ;  er  wird  schon  durch  die  Welt  kommen,  and 
so  on.  In  old  age  it  is  indeed  a  consolation  to  think  that  the 
work  of  life  is  over  and  done  with.  The  happiest  lot  is  not  to 
have  experienced  the  keenest  delights  or  the  greatest  pleasures, 
but  to  have  brought  life  to  a  close  without  any  very  great  pain, 
bodily  or  mental.  To  measure  the  happiness  of  a  life  by  its 
delights  or  pleasures,  is  to  apply  a  false  standard.  For  pleas- 
ures are  and  remain  something  negative  ;  that  they  produce 
happiness  is  a  delusion,  cherished  by  envy  to  its  own  punish- 
ment. Pain  is  felt  to  be  something  positive,  and  hence  its 
absence  is  the  true  standard  of  happiness.  And  if,  over  and 
above  freedom  from  pain,  there  is  also  an  absence  of  boredom, 


GENERAL    RULES.  II 

the  essential  conditions  of  earthly  h'appiness  are  attained  ;  for 
all  else  is  chimerical. 

It  follows  from  this  that  a  man  should  never  try  to  purchase 
pleasure  at  the  cost  of  pain,  or  even  at  the  risk  of  incurring  it ; 
to  do  so  is  to  pay  what  is  positive  and  real,  for  what  is  negative 
and  illusory  ;  while  there  is  a  net  profit  in  sacrificing  pleasure 
for  the  sake  of  avoiding  pain.  In  either  case  it  is  a  matter  of 
indifference  whether  the  pain  follows  the  pleasure  or  precedes 
it.  While  it  is  a  complete  inversion  of  the  natural  order  to  try 
and  turn  this  scene  of  misery  into  a  garden  of  pleasure,  to  aim 
at  joy  and  pleasure  rather  than  at  the  greatest  possible  freedom 
from  pain — and  yet  how  many  do  it ! — there  is  some  wisdom 
in  taking  a  gloomy  view,  in  looking  upon  the  world  as  a  kind 
of  Hell,  and  in  confining  one's  efforts  to  securing  a  little  room 
that  shall  not  be  exposed  to  the  fire.  The  fool  rushes  after  the 
pleasures  of  life  and  finds  himself  their  dupe  ;  the  wise  man 
avoids  its  evils  ;  and  even  if,  notwithstanding  his  precautions, 
he  falls  into  misfortunes,  that  is  the  fault  of  fate,  not  of  his  own 
folly.  As  far  as  he  is  successful  in  his  endeavors,  he  cannot  be 
said  to  have  lived  a  life  of  illusion  ;  for  the  evils  which  he 
shuns  are  very  real.  Even  if  he  goes  too  far  out  of  his  way  to 
avoid  evils,  and  makes  an  unnecessary  sacrifice  of  pleasure,  he 
is,  in  reality,  not  the  worse  off  for  that  ;  for  all  pleasures  are 
chimerical,  and  to  mourn  for  having  lost  any  of  them  is  a 
frivolous,  and  even  ridiculous  proceeding. 

The  failure  to  recognize  this  truth — a  failure  promoted  by 
optimistic  ideas — is  the  source  of  much  unhappiness.  In  mo- 
ments free  from  pain,  our  restless  wishes  present,  as  it  were  in 
a  mirror,  the  image  of  a  happiness  that  has  no  counterpart  in 
reality,  seducing  us  to  follow  it ;  in  doing  so  we  bring  pain  up- 
on ourselves,  and  that  is  something  undeniably  real.  After- 
wards, we  come  to  look  with  regret  upon  that  lost  state  of 
painlessness  ;  it  is  a  paradise  which  we  have  gambled  away  ; 
it  is  no  longer  with  us,  and  we  long  in  vain  to  undo  what  has 
been  done. 

One  might  well  fancy  that  these  visions  of  wishes  ful- 
filled were  the  work  of  some  evil  spirit,  conjured  up  in  order 


12  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

to  entice  us  away  from  that  painless  state  which  forms  our 
highest  happiness. 

A  careless  youth  may  think  that  the  world  is  meant  to  be 
enjoyed,  as  though  it  were  the  abode  of  some  real  or  positive 
happiness,  which  only  those  fail  to  attain  who  are  not  clever 
enough  to  overcome  the  difficulties  that  lie  in  the  way.  This 
false  notion  takes  a  stronger  hold  on  him  when  he  comes  to 
read  poetry  and  romance,  and  to  be  deceived  by  outward 
show — the  hypocrisy  that  chara6lerizes  the  world  from  begin- 
ning to  end  ;  on  which  I  shall  have  something  to  say  present- 
ly. The  result  is  that  his  life  is  the  more  or  less  deliberate 
pursuit  of  positive  happiness  ;  and  happiness  he  takes  to  be 
equivalent  to  a  series  of  definite  pleasures.  In  seeking  for 
these  pleasures  he  encounters  danger — a  fact  which  should  not 
be  forgotten.  He  hunts  for  game  that  does  not  exist  ;  and  so 
he  ends  by  suffering  some  very  real  and  positive  misfortune — 
pain,  distress,  sickness,  loss,  care,  poverty,  shame,  and  all  the 
thousand  ills  of  life.  Too  late  he  discovers  the  trick  that  has 
been  played  upon  him. 

But  if  the  rule  I  have  mentioned  is  observed,  and  a  plan  of 
life  is  adopted  which  proceeds  by  avoiding  pain — in  other 
words,  by  taking  measures  of  precaution  against  want,  sick- 
ness, and  distress  in  all  its  forms,  the  aim  is  a  real  one,  and 
something  may  be  achieved  which  will  be  great  in  proportion 
as  the  plan  is  not  disturbed  by  striving  after  the  chimera  of 
positive  happiness.  This  agrees  with  the  opinion  expressed 
by  Goethe  in  the  Elective  Affinities,  and  there  put  into  the 
mouth  of  Mittler — the  man  who  is  always  trying  to  make  other 
people  happy  :  To  desire  to  get  rid  of  an  evil  is  a  definite  ob- 
ject, but  to  desire  a  better  fortune  than  one  has  is  blind  folly. 
The  same  truth  is  contained  in  that  fine  French  proverb  :  le 
mieux  est  t  ennemi  du  bien — leave  well  alone.  And,  as  I  have 
remarked  in  my  chief  work,^  this  is  the  leading  thought  under- 
lying the  philosophical  system  of  the  Cynics.  For  what  was  it 
led  the  Cynics  to  repudiate  pleasure  in  every  form,  if  it  was 
not  the  fad  that  pain  is,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  always 
>  Weltals  Wille  und  Vorstellung,  vol.  ii.,  ch.  i6. 


GENERAL   RULES.  1 3 

bound  up  with  pleasure  ?  To  go  out  of  the  way  of  pain  seem- 
ed to  them  so  much  easier  than  to  secure  pleasure.  Deeply 
impressed  as  they  were  by  the  negative  nature  of  pleasure  and 
the  positive  nature  of  pain,  they  consistently  devoted  all  their 
efforts  to  the  avoidance  of  pain.  The  first  step  to  that  end 
was,  in  their  opinion,  a  complete  and  deliberate  repudiation  of 
pleasure,  as  something  which  served  only  to  entrap  the  vidlim 
in  order  that  he  might  be  delivered  over  to  pain. 

We  are  all  born,  as  Schiller  says,  in  Arcadia.  In  other 
words,  we  come  into  the  world  full  of  claims  to  happiness  and 
pleasure,  and  we  cherish  the  fond  hope  of  making  them  good. 
But,  as  a  rule,  Fate  soon  teaches  us,  in  a  rough  and  ready  way 
that  we  really  possess  nothing  at  all,  but  that  everything  in  the 
world  is  at  its  command,  in  virtue  of  an  unassailable  right,  not 
only  to  all  we  have  or  acquire,  to  wife  or  child,  but  even  to 
our  very  limbs,  our  arms,  legs,  eyes  and  ears,  nay,  even  to  the 
nose  in  the  middle  of  our  face.  And  in  any  case,  after  some 
little  time,  we  learn  by  experience  that  happiness  and  pleasure 
are  a  fata  morgana,  which,  visible  from  afar,  vanish  as  we  ap- 
proach ;  that,  on  the  other  hand,  suffering  and  pain  are  a  reali- 
ty, which  makes  its  presence  felt  without  any  intermediary, 
and  for  its  effe6l,  stands  in  no  need  of  illusion  or  the  play 
of  false  hope. 

If  the  teaching  of  experience  bears  fruit  in  us,  we  soon  give 
up  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  and  happiness,  and  think  much 
more  about  making  ourselves  secure  against  the  attacks  of  pain 
and  suffering.  We  see  that  the  best  the  world  has  to  offer  is 
an  existence  free  from  pain — a  quiet,  tolerable  life  ;  and  we 
confine  our  claims  to  this,  as  to  something  we  can  more  surely 
hope  to  achieve.  For  the  safest  way  of  not  being  very  miser- 
able is  not  to  expe6l  to  be  very  happy.  Merck,  the  friend  of 
Goethe's  youth,  was  conscious  of  this  truth  when  he  wrote: 
It  is  the  wretched  way  people  have  of  setting  up  a  claim  to  happi- 
ness— and,  that  to.  in  a  measure  corresponding  with  their  de- 
sires— that  ruins  everything  in  this  world.  A  man  will  m^ke 
progress  if  he  can  get  rid  of  this  clahn^  and  desire  nothing  but 

'  Letters  to  and  from  Merck. 


14  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

what  he  sees  before  him.  Accordingly  it  is  advisable  to  put 
very  moderate  limits  upon  our  expectations  of  pleasure,  pos- 
sessions, rank,  honor  and  so  on  ;  because  it  is  just  this  striving 
and  struggling  to  be  happy,  to  dazzle  the  world,  to  lead  a  life 
full  of  pleasure,  which  entail  great  misfortune.  It  is  prudent 
and  wise,  I  say,  to  reduce  one's  claims,  if  only  for  the  reason 
that  it  is  extremely  easy  to  be  very  unhappy  ;  while  to  be  very 
happy  is  not  indeed  difficult,  but  quite  impossible.  With  jus- 
tice sings  the  poet  of  life's  wisdom  : 

Auream  quisquis  mediocritatem 
Diligit,  tutus  caret  obsoleti 
Sordibus  tecti,  caret  invidenda 
Sobrius  aula. 

Soevius  ventis  agitatur  ingens 
Pinus :  et  celsoe  graviori  casu 
Decidunt  turres ;  feriuntque  suntmos 
Fulgura  tnontes.^ 

— the  golden  mean  is  best — to  live  free  from  the  squalor  of  a 
mean  abode,  and  yet  not  be  a  mark  for  envy.  It  is  the  tall 
pine  which  is  cruelly  shaken  by  the  wind,  the  highest  summits 
that  are  struck  in  the  storm,  and  the  lofty  towers  that  fall  so 
heavily. 

He  who  has  taken  to  heart  the  teaching  of  my  philosophy — 
who  knows,  therefore,  that  our  whole  existence  is  something 
which  had  better  not  have  been,  and  that  to  disown  and  dis- 
claim it  is  the  highest  wisdom — he  will  have  no  great  expe6la- 
tions  from  anything  or  any  condition  in  life  :  he  will  spend 
passion  upon  nothing  in  the  world,  nor  lament  over-much  if  he 
fails  in  any  of  his  undertakings.  He  will  feel  the  deep  truth  of 
what  Plato'  says  :  ovrt  ti  tuv  dvQpooTCivoov  u^iov  ov  jiieyu\?^<;  aicovd^i 
— nothing  in  human  affairs  is  worth  any  great  anxiety  ;  or,  as 
the  Persian  poet  has  it, 

Though  from  thy  grasp  all  worldly  things  should  flee. 

Grieve  not  for  thetn,  for  they  are  not  hi  fig  worth  : 
And  though  a  world  in  thy  possession  be, 

foy  not,  for  worthless  are  the  things  of  earth. 
Since  to  that  better  world  'tis  given  to  thee 
To  pass,  speed  on,  for  this  is  nothing  worth.^ 
•Horace.      Odes  II.  x.  ^Republic,  x.  604. 

Translator's  Note. — From  the  Anvir-i  Suhaili — The  Lights  of 
Canoi)us — being  the  Persian  version  of  the  Table  of  Bidpai.  Trans- 
lated by  E.  B.  Eastwick,  ch.  iii.    Story  vi.,  p.  289. 


GENERAL    RULES.  1 5 

The  chief  obstacle  to  our  arriving  at  these  salutary  views  is 
that  hypocrisy  of  the  world  to  which  I  have  already  alluded — 
an  hypocrisy  which  should  be  early  revealed  to  the  young. 
Most  of  the  glories  of  the  world  are  mere  outward  show,  like 
the  scenes  on  a  stage  :  there  is  nothing  real  about  them.  Ships 
festooned  and  hung  with  pennants,  firing  of  cannon,  illumina- 
tions, beating  of  drums  and  blowing  of  trumpets,  shouting  and 
applauding — these  are  all  the  outward  sign,  the  pretence  and 
suggestion, — as  it  were  the  hieroglyphic, — oi  Joy  :  but  just 
there,  joy  is,  as  a  rule,  not  to  be  found  ;  it  is  the  only  guest 
who  has  declined  to  be  present  at  the  festival.  Where  this 
guest  may  really  be  found,  he  comes  generally  without  invita- 
tion ;  he  is  not  formerly  announced,  but  slips  in  quietly  by 
himself  sans  facon ;  often  making  his  appearance  under  the 
most  unimportant  and  trivial  circumstances,  and  in  the  com- 
monest company — anywhere,  in  short,  but  where  the  society  is 
brilliant  and  distinguished.  Joy  is  like  the  gold  in  the  Austra- 
lian mines — found  only  now  and  then,  as  it  were,  by  the  caprice 
of  chance,  and  according  to  no  rule  or  law  ;  oftenest  in  very 
little  grains,  and  very  seldom  in  heaps.  All  that  outward  show 
which  I  have  described,  is  only  an  attempt  to  make  people  be- 
lieve thgit  it  is  really  joy  which  has  come  to  the  festival ;  and 
to  produce  this  impression  upon  the  spe6lators  is,  in  fa6l,  the 
whole  object  of  it. 

With  mourning  it  is  just  the  same.  That  long  funeral  pro- 
cession, moving  up  so  slowly  ;  how  melancholy  it  looks  !  what 
an  endless  row  of  carriages  !  But  look  into  them — they  are  all 
empty  ;  the  coachmen  of  the  whole  town  are  the  sole  escort 
the  dead  man  has  to  his  grave.  Eloquent  pi6lure  of  the  friend- 
ship and  esteem  of  the  world  !  This  is  the  falsehood,  the  hol- 
lowness,  the  hypocrisy  of  human  affair-  \ 

Take  another  example — a  roomful  of  guests  in  full  dress,  be- 
ing received  with  great  ceremony.     You  could  almost  believe 
that  this  is  a  noble  and  distinguished  company  ;   but,    as  a 
matter  of  fa6l,  it  is  compulsion,  pain  and  boredom  who  are  the 
.real  guests.     For  where  many  are  invited,  it  is  a  rabble — even 


l6  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

if  they  all  wear  stars.  Really  good  society  is  everywhere  of 
necessity  very  small.  In  brilliant  festivals  and  noisy  entertain- 
ments, there  is  always,  at  bottom,  a  sense  of  emptiness  preva- 
lent. A  false  tone  is  there  :  such  gatherings  are  in  strange 
contrast  with  the  misery  and  barrenness  of  our  existence.  The 
contrast  brings  the  true  condition  into  greater  relief  Still, 
these  gathering  are  effedlive  from  the  outside  ;  and  that  is  just 
their  purpose.  Chamfort*  makes  the  excellent  remark  that 
society — les  cercles,  les  salons,  ce  qu' on  appdle  le  monde — is  like 
a  miserable  play,  or  a  bad  opera,  without  any  interest  in  itself, 
but  supported  for  a  time  by  mechanical  aid,  costumes  and 
scenery. 

And  so,  too,  with  academies  and  chairs  of  philosophy.  You 
have  a  kind  of  sign-board  hung  out  to  show  the  apparent 
abode  of  wisdom :  but  wisdom  is  another  guest  who  declines 
the  invitation  ;  she  is  to  be  found  elsewhere.  The  chiming  of 
bells,  ecclesiastical  millinery,  attitudes  of  devotion,  insane  an- 
tics— these  are  the  pretence,  the  false  show  of  piety.  And  so 
on.  Everything  in  the  world  is  like  a  hollow  nut ;  there  is 
little  kernel  anywhere,  and  when  it  does  exist,  it  is  still  more 
rare  to  find  it  in  the  shell.  You  may  look  for  it  elsewhere, 
and  find  it,  as  a  rule,  only  by  chance. 

Section  2.  To  estimate  a  man's  condition  in  regard  to 
happiness,  it  is  necessary  to  ask,  not  what  things  please  him, 
but  what  things  trouble  him  ;  and  the  more  trivial  these  things 
are  in  themselves,  the  happier  the  man  will  be.  To  be  irrita- 
ted by  trifles,  a  man  must  be  well  off" ;  for  in  misfortunes  trifles 
are  unfelt. 

Section  3.  Care  should  be  taken  not  to  build  the  happiness 
ofhfe  upon  di  broad  foundation — not  to  require  a  great  many 
things  in  order  to  be  happy.     For  happiness  on  such  a  founda- 

'  Translator's  iVo/^.— Nicholas  "Chamfort"  (1741-94),  a  French 
miscellaneous  writer,  whose  brilliant  conversation,  power  of  sarcasm, 
and  epigrammatic  force,  coupled  with  an  extraordinary  career,  render 
him  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  remarkable  men  of  his  time. 
Schopenhauer  undoubtedly  owed  much  to  this  writer,  to  whom  he 
constantly  refers . 


GENERAL   RULES.  1 7 

tion  is  the  most  easily  undermined  ;  it  offers  many  more  oppor- 
tunities for  accidents  ;  and  accidents  are  always  happening. 
The  archite6lure  of  happiness  follows  a  plan  in  this  respe6l  just 
the  opposite  of  that  adopted  in  every  other  case,  where  the 
broadest  foundation  offers  the  greatest  security.  Accordingly, 
to  reduce  your  claims  to  the  lowest  possible  degree,  in  com- 
parison with  your  means, — of  whatever  kind  these  may  be — is 
the  surest  way  of  avoiding  extreme  misfortune. 

To  make  extensive  preparations  for  life — no  matter  what 
form  they  may  take — is  one  of  the  greatest  and  commonest  of 
follies.  Such  preparations  presuppose,  in  the  first  place,  a 
long  Hfe,  the  full  and  complete  term  of  years  appointed  to  man 
— and  how  few  reach  it  !  and  even  if  it  be  reached,  it  is  still  too 
short  for  all  the  plans  that  have  been  made  ;  for  to  carry  them 
out  requires  more  time  than  was  thought  necessary  at  the  be- 
ginning. And  then  how  many  mischances  and  obstacles  stand 
in  the  way  !  how  seldom  the  goal  is  ever  reached  in  human 
affairs  ! 

And  lastly,  even  though  the  goal  should  be  reached,  the 
changes  which  Time  works  in  us  have  been  left  out  of  the 
reckoning  :  we  forget  that  the  capacity  whether  for  achieve- 
ment or  for  enjoyment  does  not  last  a  whole  lifetime.  So  we 
often  toil  for  things  which  are  no  longer  suited  to  us  when  we 
attain  them  ;  and  again,  the  years  we  spend  in  preparing  for 
some  work,  unconsciously  rob  us  of  the  power  for  carrying 
it  out. 

How  often  it  happens  that  a  man  is  unable  to  enjoy  the 
wealth  which  he  acquired  at  so  much  trouble  and  risk,  and 
that  the  fruits  of  his  labor  are  reserved  for  others  ;  or  that  he 
is  incapable  of  filling  the  position  which  he  has  won  after  so 
many  years  of  toil  and  struggle.  Fortune  has  come  too  late 
for  him  ;  or,  contrarily,  he  has  come  too  late  for  fortune, — 
when,  for  instance,  he  wants  to  achieve  great  things,  say,  in 
art  or  literature  :  the  popular  taste  has  changed,  it  may  be  ;  a 
new  generation  has  grown  up,  which  takes  no  interest  in  his 
work  ;  others  have  gone  a  shorter  way  and  got  the  start  of 


1 8  COUNSELS    AND    MAXIMS. 

him.     These  are  the  fa6ls  of  life  which  Horace  must  have  had 
in  view,  when  he  lamented  the  uselessness  of  all  advice  : — 

quid  etemis  minorem 
Consiliis  anitnum  fatigas  f  ' 

The  cause  of  this  commonest  of  all  follies  is  that  optical  illu- 
sion of  the  mind  from  which  everyone  suffers,  making  life,  at 
its  beginning,  seem  of  long  duration  ;  and  at  its  end,  when  one 
looks  back  over  the  course  of  it,  how  short  a  time  it  seems  ! 
There  is  some  advantage  in  the  illusion  ;  but  for  it,  no  great 
work  would  ever  be  done. 

Our  life  is  like  a  journey  on  which,  as  we  advance,  the  land- 
scape takes  a  different  view  from  that  which  it  presented  at 
first,  and  changes  again,  as  we  come  nearer.  This  is  just  what 
happens — especially  with  our  wishes.  We  often  find  something 
else,  nay,  something  better  than  what  we  were  looking  for  ; 
and  what  we  look  for,  we  often  find  on  a  very  different  path 
from  that  on  which  we  began  a  vain  search.  Instead  of  find- 
ing, as  we  expedled,  pleasure,  happiness,  joy,  we  get  experi- 
ence, insight,  knowledge — a  real  and  permanent  blessing,  in- 
stead of  a  fleeting  and  illusory  one. 

This  is  the  thought  that  runs  through  Wilhelm  Meister,  like 
the  bass  in  a  piece  of  music.  In  this  work  of  Goethe's,  we 
have  a  novel  of  the  intelle^lual  kind,  and,  therefore,  superior 
to  all  others,  even  to  Sir  Walter  Scott's,  which  are,  one  and  all, 
ethical;  in  other  words,  they  treat  of  human  nature  only  from 
the  side  of  the  will.  So,  too,  in  the  Zauberfidte — that  gro- 
tesque, but  still  significant,  and  even  ambiguous  hieroglyphic 
— the  same  thought  is  symbolized,  but  in  great,  coarse  lines, 
much  in  the  way  in  which  scenery  is  painted.  Here  the  sym- 
bol would  be  complete  if  Tamino  were  in  the  end  to  be  cured 
of  his  desire  to  possess  Tamina,  and  received,  in  her  stead, 
initiation  into  the  mysteries  of  the  Temple  of  Wisdom.  It  is 
quite  right  for  Papageno,  his  necessary  contrast,  to  succeed  in 
getting  his  Papagena. 

'  Odes  II.  xi. 


GENERAL    RULES.  I9 

Men  of  any  worth  or  value  soon  come  to  see  that  they  are 
in  the  hands  of  Fate,  and  gratefully  submit  to  be  moulded  by 
its  teachings.  They  recognize  that  the  fruit  of  life  is  experience, 
and  not  happiness  ;  they  become  accustomed  and  content  to 
exchange  hope  for  insight ;  and,  in  the  end,  they  can  say,  with 
Petrarch,  that  all  they  care  for  is  to  learn  : — 

Altro  diletto  che  'mparar,  non  provo. 

It  may  even  be  that  they  to  some  extent  still  follow  their  old 
wishes  and  aims,  trifling  with  them,  as  it  were,  for  the  sake  of 
appearances ;  all  the  while  really  and  seriousjy  looking  for 
nothing  but  instruction  ;  a  process  which  lends  them  an  air  of 
genius,  a  trait  of  something  contemplative  and  sublime. 

In  their  search  for  gold,  the  alchemists  discovered  other 
things — gunpowder,  china,  medicines,  the  laws  of  nature. 
There  is  a  sense  in  which  we  are  all  alchemists. 


CHAPTER  II. 

OUR    RELATION   TO    OURSELVES. — SECTION   4. 

THE  masoi\  employed  on  the  building  of  a  house  may  be 
quite  ignorant  of  its  general  design  ;  or  at  any  rate,  he 
may  not  keep  it  constantly  in  mind.  So  it  is  with  man  :  in 
working  through  the  days  and  hours  of  his  life,  he  takes  little 
thought  of  its  character  as  a  whole. 

If  there  is  any  merit  or  importance  attaching  to  a  man's 
career,  if  he  lays  himself  out  carefully  for  some  special  work,  it 
is  all  the  more  necessary  and  advisable  for  him  to  turn  his  at- 
tention now  and  then  to  its  plan,  that  is  to  say,  the  miniature 
sketch  of  its  general  outlines.  Of  course,  to  do  that,  he  must 
have  applied  the  maxim  YvMi  aiavrov ;  he  must  have  made 
some  little  progress  in  the  art  of  understanding  himself  He 
must  know  what  is  his  real,  chief,  and  foremost  objedl  in  life, — 
what  it  is  that  he  most  wants  in  order  to  be  happy  ;  and  then, 
after  that,  what  occupies  the  second  and  third  place  in  his 
thoughts  ;  he  must  find  out  what,  on  the  whole,  his  vocation 
really  is — the  part  he  has  to  play,  his  general  relation  to  the 
world.  If  he  maps  out  important  work  for  himself  on  great 
lines,  a  glance  at  this  miniature  plan  of  his  life  will,  more  than 
anything  else  stimulate,  rouse  and  ennoble  him,  urge  him  on 
to  adlion  and  keep  him  from  false  paths. 

Again,  just  as  the  traveler,  on  reaching  a  height,  gets  a 
conne6led  view  over  the  road  he  has  taken,  with  its  many 
turns  and  windings  ;  so  it  is  only  when  we  have  completed  a 
period  in  our  life,  or  approach  the  end  of  it  altogether,  that  we 
recognize  the  true  connection  between  all  our  adtions, — what 
it  is  we  have  achieved,  what  work  we  have  done.     It  is  only 

(JO) 


OUR   RELATION  TO    OURSELVES.  21 

then  that  we  see  the  precise  chain  of  cause  and  effedl,  and  the 
exa<5l  value  of  all  our  efforts.  For  as  long  as  we  are  adlually 
engaged  in  the  work  of  life,  we  always  a6l  in  accordance  with 
the  nature  of  our  chara6ler,  under  the  influence  of  motive,  and 
within  the  limits  of  our  capacity, — in  a  word,  from  beginning 
to  end,  under  a  law  oi  necessity  ;  at  every  moment  we  do  just 
what  appears  to  us  right  and  proper.  It  is  only  afterwards, 
when  we  come  to  look  back  at  the  whole  course  of  our  life  and 
its  general  result,  that  we  see  the  why  and  wherefore  of  it  all. 

When  we  are  a6lually  doing  some  great  deed,  or  creating 
some  immortal  work,  we  are  not  conscious  of  it  as  such  ;  we 
think  only  of  satisfying  present  aims,  of  fulfilling  the  intentions 
we  happen  to  have  at  the  time,  of  doing  the  right  thing  at  the 
moment.  It  is  only  when  we  come  to  view  our  life  as  a  con- 
nedled  whole  that  our  chara6ler  and  capacities  show  themselves 
in  their  true  light  ;  that  we  see  how,  in  particular  instances, 
some  happy  inspiration,  as  it  were,  led  us  to  choose  the  only 
true  path  out  of  a  thousand  which  might  have  brought  us  to 
ruin.  It  was  our  genius  that  guided  us,  a  force  felt  in  the 
affairs  of  the  intelledtual  as  in  those  of  the  world  ;  and  working 
by  its  defe6l  Justin  the  same  way  in  regard  to  evil  and  disaster. 

Section  5.  Another  important  element  in  the  wise  condudl 
of  life  is  to  preserve  a  proper  proportion  between  our  thought 
for  the  present  and  our  thought  for  the  future  ;  in  order  not  to 
spoil  the  one  by  paying  over-great  attention  to  the  other. 
Many  live  too  long  in  the  present — frivolous  people,  I  mean  ; 
others,  too  much  in  the  future,  ever  anxious  and  full  of  care. 
It  is  seldom  that  a  man  holds  the  right  balance  between  the 
two  extremes.  Those  who  strive  and  hope  and  live  only  in  the 
future,  always  looking  ahead  and  impatiently  anticipating  what 
is  coming,  as  something  which  will  make  them  happy  when 
they  get  it,  are,  in  spite  of  their  very  clever  airs,  exactly  like 
those  donkeys  one  sees  in  Italy,  whose  pace  may  be  hurried 
by  fixing  a  stick  on  their  heads  with  a  wisp  of  hay  at  the  end 
of  it  ;  this  is  always  just  in  front  of  them,  and  they  keep  on 
trying  to  get  it.     Such  people  are  in  a  constant  state  of  illusion 


22  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

as  to  their  whole  existence  ;  they  go  on  living  ad  interim,  un- 
til at  last  they  die. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  always  thinking  about  our  plans  and 
anxiously  looking  to  the  future,  or  of  giving  ourselves  up  to 
regret  for  the  past,  we  should  never  forget  that  the  present  is 
the  only  reality,  the  only  certainty  ;  that  the  future  almost  al- 
ways turns  out  contrary  to  our  expedations  ;  that  the  past, 
too,  was  very  different  from  what  we  suppose  it  to  have  been. 
Both  the  past  and  the  future  are,  on  the  whole,  of  less  conse- 
quence than  we  think.  Distance,  which  makes  obje<5^s  look 
small  to  the  outward  eye,  makes  them  look  big  to  the  eye  oi 
thought.  The  present  alone  is  true  and  actual  ;  it  is  the  only 
time  which  possesses  full  reality,  and  our  existence  lies  in  it 
exclusively.  Therefore  we  should  always  be  glad  of  it,  and 
give  it  the  welcome  it  deserves,  and  enjoy  every  hour  that  is 
bearable  by  its  freedom  from  pain  and  annoyance  with  a  full 
consciousness  of  its  value.  We  shall  hardly  be  able  to  do  this 
if  we  make  a  wry  face  over  the  failure  of  our  hopes  in  the  past 
or  over  our  anxiety  for  the  future.  It  is  the  height  of  folly  to 
refuse  the  present  hour  of  happiness,  or  wantonly  to  spoil  it  by 
vexation  at  by-gones  or  uneasiness  about  what  is  to  come. 
There  is  a  time,  of  course,  for  forethought,  nay,  even  for  re- 
pentance ;  but  when  it  is  over  let  us  think  of  what  is  past  as 
of  something  to  which  we  have  .said  farewell,  of  necessity  sub- 
duing our  hearts — 

aXTio.  tH  fitv  npoTenixSai  idrrofxev  d^^vvuevoc  nep 
Ovfibv  kvi  aTT)Oeaai  ipiXov  dafiuaavreg  ilvuyKy,  ' 

and  of  the  future  as  of  that  which  lies  beyond  our  power,  in 
the  lap  of  the  gods — 

dXX  TJTOi  fihi  Tuvra  deCtv  tv  ynvvaai  Kilrai.  * 

But  in  regard  to  the  present  let  us  remember  Seneca's  advice, 
and  live  each  day  as  if  it  were  our  whole  life, — singulas  dies 
singulas  vitas puta:  let  us  make  it  as  agreeable  as  possible,  it 
is  the  only  real  time  we  have. 

Only  tho.se  evils  which  are  sure  to  come  at  a  definite  date 
^  Iliad,  xix,  65.  ^Ibid,  xvii,  514. 


OUR   RELATION  TO    OURSELVES.  2$ 

have  any  right  to  disturb  us  ;  and  how  few  there  are  which 
fulfill  this  description.  For  evils  are  of  two  kinds  ;  either  they 
are  possible  only,  at  most  probable  ;  or  they  are  inevitable. 
Even  in  the  case  of  evils  which  are  sure  to  happen,  the  time  at 
which  they  will  happen  is  uncertain.  A  man  who  is  always 
preparing  for  either  class  of  evil  will  not  have  a  moment  of 
peace  left  him.  So,  if  we  are  not  to  lose  all  comfort  in  life 
through  the  fear  of  evils,  some  of  which  are  uncertain  in  them- 
selves, and  others,  in  the  time  at  which  they  will  occur,  we 
should  look  upon  the  one  kind  as  never  likely  to  happen,  and 
the  other  as  not  likely  to  happen  very  soon. 

Now,  the  less  our  peace  of  mind  is  disturbed  by  fear,  the 
more  likely  it  is  to  be  agitated  by  desire  and  expedlation.  This 
is  the  true  meaning  of  that  song  of  Goethe's  which  is  such  a 
favorite  with  everyone  :  IcA  had'  mein'  Sack'  aufnichts  gestellt. 
It  is  only  after  a  man  has  got  rid  of  all  pretension,  and  taken 
refuge  in  mere  unembellished  existence,  that  he  is  able  to  at- 
tain that  peace  of  mind  which  is  the  foundation  of  human 
happiness.  Peace  of  mind  !  that  is  something  essential  to  any 
enjoyment  of  the  present  moment ;  and  unless  its  separate 
moments  are  enjoyed,  there  is  an  end  of  life's  happiness  as  a 
whole.  We  should  always  recoUedl  that  To-day  comes  only 
once,  and  never  returns.  We  fancy  that  it  will  come  again  to- 
morrow ;  but  To-morrow  is  another  day,  which,  in  its  turn, 
comes  once  only.  We  are  apt  to  forget  that  every  day  is  an 
integral,  and  therefore  irreplaceable  portion  of  life,  and  to  look 
upon  life  as  though  it  were  a  collective  idea  or  name  which 
does  not  suffer  if  one  of  the  individuals  it  covers  is  destroyed. 

We  should  be  more  likely  to  appreciate  and  enjoy  the  pres- 
ent, if,  in  those  good  days  when  we  are  well  and  strong,  we 
did  not  fail  to  refledl  how,  in  sickness  and  sorrow,  every  past 
hour  that  was  free  from  pain  and  privation  seemed  in  our 
memory  so  infinitely  to  be  envied — as  it  were,  a  lost  paradise, 
or  some  one  who  was  only  then  seen  to  have  adled  as  a  friend. 
But  we  live  through  our  days  of  happiness  without  noticing 
them  ;  it  is  only  when  evil  comes  upon  us  that  we  wish  them 


24  COUNSELS  AND   MAXIMS. 

back.  A  thousand  gay  and  pleasant  hours  are  wasted  in  ill- 
humor  ;  we  let  them  slip  by  unenjoyed,  and  sigh  for  them  in 
vain  when  the  sky  is  overcast.  Those  present  moments  that 
are  bearable,  be  they  never  so  trite  and  common, — passed  by  in 
indifference,  or,  it  may  be,  impatiently  pushed  away, — those 
are  the  moments  we  should  honor  ;  never  failing  to  remember 
that  the  ebbing  tide  is  even  now  hurrying  them  into  the  past, 
where  memory  will  store  them  transfigured  and  shining  with 
an  imperishable  light, — in  some  after-time,  and  above  all, 
when  our  days  are  evil,  to  raise  the  veil  and  present  them  as 
the  object  of  our  fondest  regret. 

Section  6.  Limitation  always  makes  for  happiness.  We 
are  happy  in  proportion  as  our  range  of  vision,  our  sphere  of 
work,  our  points  of  contaft  with  the  world,  are  restri6led  and 
circumscribed.  We  are  more  likely  to  feel  worried  and  anx- 
ious if  these  limits  are  wide  ;  for  it  means  that  our  cares,  desires 
and  terrors  are  increased  and  intensified.  That  is  why  the 
blind  are  not  so  unhappy  as  we  might  be  inclined  to  suppose  ; 
otherwise  there  would  not  be  that  gentle  and  almost  serene 
expression  of  peace  in  their  faces. 

Another  reason  why  limitation  makes  for  happiness  is  that 
the  second  half  of  life  proves  even  more  dreary  than  the  first. 
As  the  years  wear  on,  the  horizon  of  our  aims  and  our  points 
of  conta<5l  with  the  world  become  more  extended.  In  child- 
hood our  horizon  is  limited  to  the  narrowest  sphere  about  us  ; 
in  youth  there  is  already  a  very  considerable  widening  of  our 
view  ;  in  manhood  it  comprises  the  whole  range  of  our  adlivity, 
often  stretching  out  over  a  very  distant  sphere, — the  care,  for 
instance,  of  a  State  or  a  nation  ;  in  old  age  it  embraces  posterity. 

But  even  in  the  affairs  of  the  intellect,  limitation  is  necessary 
if  we  are  to  be  happy.  For  the  less  the  will  is  excited,  the  less 
we  suffer.  We  have  seen  that  suffering  is  something  positive, 
and  that  happiness  is  only  a  negative  condition.  To  limit  the 
sphere  of  outward  a6livity  is  to  relieve  the  will  of  external 
stimulus  :  to  limit  the  sphere  of  our  intelle6lual  efforts  is  to  re- 
lieve the  will  of  internal  sources  of  excitement.     This  latter  kind 


OUR    RELATION   TO    OURSELVES.  25 

•of  limitation  is  attended  by  the  disadvantage  that  it  opens  the 
door  to  boredom,  which  is  a  dire6l  source  of  countless  suffer- 
ings ;  for  to  banish  boredom,  a  man  will  have  recourse  to  any 
means  that  may  be  handy — dissipation,  society,  extravagance, 
gaming,  and  drinking,  and  the  like,  which  in  their  turn  bring 
mischief,  ruin  and  misery  in  their  train.  Difficiles  in  otio  quies 
— it  is  difficult  to  keep  quiet  if  you  have  nothing  to  do.  That 
limitation  in  the  sphere  of  outward  a6livity  is  conducive,  nay, 
even  necessary  to  human  happiness,  such  as  it  is,  may  be  seen 
in  the  fa<5l  that  the  only  kind  of  poetry  which  depi6ts  men  in  a 
happy  state  of  life — Idyllic  poetry,  I  mean, — always  aims,  as 
an  intrinsic  part  of  its  treatment,  at  representing  them  in  very 
simple  and  restri(5led  circumstances.  It  is  this  feeling,  too, 
which  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  pleasure  we  take  in  what  are  call- 
ed genre  pidlures. 

Simplicity^  therefore,  as  far  as  it  can  be  attained,  and  even 
monotony,  in  our  manner  of  life,  if  it  does  not  mean  that  we  are 
bored,  will  contribute  to  happiness  ;  just  because,  under  such 
circumstances,  life,  and  consequently  the  burden  which  is  the 
essential  concomitant  of  life,  will  be  least  felt.  Our  existence 
w^ill  glide  on  peacefully  like  a  stream  which  no  waves  or 
whirlpools  disturb. 

Section  7.  Whether  we  are  in  a  pleasant  or  a  painful  state 
depends,  ultimately,  upon  the  kind  of  matter  that  pervades  and 
engrosses  our  consciousness.  In  this  resped,  purely  intelled- 
ual  occupation,  for  the  mind  that  is  capable  of  it,  will,  as  a  rule, 
do  much  more  in  the  way  of  happiness  than  any  form  of  prac- 
tical life,  with  its  constant  alternations  of  success  and  failure, 
and  all  the  shocks  and  torments  it  produces.  But  it  must  be 
confessed  that  for  such  occupation  a  pre-eminent  amount  of 
intelle<5lual  capacity  is  necessary.  And  in  this  connection  it 
may  be  noted  that,  just  as  a  life  devoted  to  outward  a(5livity 
will  distraft  and  divert  a  man  from  study,  and  also  deprive  him 
of  that  quiet  concentration  of  mind  which  is  necessary  for  such 
work  ;  so,  on  the  other  hand,  a  long  course  of  thought  will 
make  him  more  or  less  unfit  for  the  noisy  pursuits  of  real  life. 
It  is  advisable,  therefore,  to  suspend  mental  work  for  a  while, 


26  COUNSELS   AND    MAXIMS. 

if  circumstances  happen  which  demand  any  degree  of  energy 
in  affairs  of  a  pradlical  nature. 

Section  8.  To  live  a  life  that  shall  be  entirely  prudent  and 
discreet,  and  to  draw  from  experience  all  the  instru6lion  it  con- 
tains, it  is  requisite  to  be  constantly  thinking  back, — to  make 
a  kind  of  recapitulation  of  what  we  have  done,  of  our  impres- 
sions and  sensations,  to  compare  our  former  with  our  present 
judgments — what  we  set  before  us  and  struggle  to  achieve,  with 
the  a<5lual  result  and  satisfaction  we  have  obtained.  To  do  this 
is  to  get  a  repetition  of  the  private  lessons  of  experience, — 
lessons  which  are  given  to  every  one. 

Experience  of  the  world  may  be  looked  upon  as  a  kind  of 
text,  to  which  reflection  and  knowledge  form  the  commentary. 
Where  there  is  great  deal  of  refledlion  and  intelledlual  knowl- 
edge, and  very  little  experience,  the  result  is  like  those  books 
which  have  on  each  page  two  lines  of  text  to  forty  lines  of 
commentary.  A  great  deal  of  experience  with  little  refle6lion 
and  scanty  knowledge,  gives  us  books  like  those  of  the  editio 
Bipontina,'^  where  there  are  no  notes  and  much  that  is  unin- 
telligible. 

The  advice  here  given  is  on  a  par  with  a  rule  recommend- 
ed by  Pythagoras, — to  review,  every  night  before  going  to 
sleep,  what  we  have  done  during  the  day.  To  live  at  random, 
in  the  hurly-burly  of  business  or  pleasure,  without  ever  reflect- 
ing upon  the  past, — to  go  on,  as  it  were,  pulling  cotton  off  the 
reel  of  life, — is  to  have  no  clear  idea  of  what  we  are  about ;  and 
a  man  who  lives  in  this  state  will  have  chaos  in  his  emotions 
and  certain  confusion  in  his  thoughts  ;  as  is  soon  manifest  by 
the  abrupt  and  fragmentary  character  of  his  conversation, 
which  becomes  a  kind  of  mincemeat.  A  man  will  be  all  the 
more  exposed  to  this  fate  in  proportion  as  he  lives  a  restless 
life  in  the  world,  amid  a  crowd  of  various  impressions  and  with 
a  correspondingly  small  amount  of  activity  on  the  part  of  his 
own  mind. 

And  in  this  conneClion  it  will  be  in  place  to  observe  that, 

'  Translator' s  Note. — A  series  of  Greek,  Latin  and  French  classics 
published  at  Zweibriicken  in  the  Palatinate,  from  and  after  the  year 
1779.    Cf.  Butter,  Ueber  die  Bipontiner  und  die  editiones  Bipontinae, 


OUR   RELATION   TO    OURSELVES.  27 

when  events  and  circumstances  which  have  influenced  us  pass 
away  in  the  course  of  time,  we  are  unable  to  bring  back  and 
renew  the  particular  mood  or  state  of  feeling  which  they  arousec 
in  us  :  but  we  can  remember  what  we  were  led  to  say  and  do 
in  regard  to  them  ;  and  this  form,  as  it  were,  the  result,  ex- 
pression and  measure  of  those  events.  We  should,  therefore, 
be  careful  to  preserve  the  memory  of  our  thoughts  at  import- 
.  ant  points  in  our  lif^  ;  and  herein  lies  the  great  advantage  of 
keeping  a  journal. 

Section  9.  To  be  self-sufficient,  to  be  all  in  all  to  oneself, 
to  want  for  nothing,  to  be  able  to  say  omnia  mea  mecum  porto 
— that  is  assuredly  the  chief  qualification  for  happiness.  Hence 
Aristotle's  remark,  })  ev6aifiovia  rHv  avTupxt->v  ian.^ — to  be  happy 
means  to  be  self-sufiicient — cannot  be  too  often  repeated.  It 
is,  at  bottom,  the  same  thought  as  is  present  in  the  very  well- 
turned  sentence  from  Chamfort : 

Le  bonheur  n' est  pas  chose  ais'ee :  il  est  tresdifficile  de  le  trouver  en 
nous,  et  impossible  de  le  trouver  ailleurs. 

For  while  a  man  cannot  reckon  with  certainty  upon  anyone 
but  himself,  the  burdens  and  disadvantages,  the  dangers  and 
annoyances,  which  arise  from  having  to  do  with  others,  are 
not  only  countless  but  unavoidable. 

There  is  no  more  mistaken  path  to  happiness  than  worldli- 
ness,  revelry,  high  life :  for  the  whole  obje6l  of  it  is  to  trans- 
form our  miserable  existence  into  a  succession  of  joys,  delights 
and  pleasures, — a  process  which  cannot  fail  to  result  in  disap- 
pointment and  delusion  ;  on  a  par,  in  this  respe6l,  with  its 
obligato  accompaniment,  the  interchange  of  lies.* 

All  society  necessarily  involves,  as  the  first  condition  of  its 
existence,  mutual  accommodation  and  restraint  upon  the  part 
of  its  members.  This  means  that  the  larger  it  is,  the  more  in- 
sipid will  be  its  tone.  A  man  can  be  himself  only  so  long  as 
he  is  alone  ;  and  if  he  does  not  love  solitude,  he  will  not  love 

^  Eudem.  Eth.  VII.  ii.  37. 
*  As  our  body  is  concealed  by  the  clothes  we  wear,  so  our  mind  is 
veiled  in  lies.    The  veil  is  always  there,  and  it  is  only  through  it  that 
we  can  sometimes  guess  at  what  a  man  really  thinks  ;  just  as  from  his 
dothes  we  arrive  at  the  general  shape  of  his  body. 


28  COUNSELS   AND    MAXIMS. 

freedom  ;  for  it  is  only  when  he  is  alone  that  he  is  really  free. 
Constraint  is  always  present  in  society,  like  a  companion  of 
whom  there  is  no  riddance  ;  and  in  proportion  to  the  greatness 
of  a  man's  individuality,  it  will  be  hard  for  him  to  bear  the 
sacrifices  which  all  intercourse  with  others  demands.  Solitude 
will  be  welcomed  or  endured  or  avoided,  according  as  a  man's 
personal  value  is  large  or  small, — the  wretch  feeling,  when  he 
is  alone,  the  whole  burden  of  his  misery  ;  the  great  intelleft 
delighting  in  its  greatness  ;  and  everyone,  in  short,  being  just 
what  he  is. 

Further,  if  a  man  stands  high  in  Nature's  lists,  it  is  natural 
and  inevitable  that  he  should  feel  solitary.  It  will  be  an  advant- 
age to  him  if  his  surroundings  do  not  interfere  with  this  feeling  ; 
for  if  he  has  to  see  a  great  deal  of  other  people  who  are  not  of 
like  charadler  with  himself,  they  will  exercise  a  disturbing  in- 
fluence upon  him,  adverse  to  his  peace  of  mind  ;  they  will  rob 
him,  in  fa6l,  of  himself,  and  give  him  nothing  to  compensate 
for  the  loss. 

But  while  Nature  sets  very  wide  differences  between  man 
and  man  in  respe6l  both  of  morality  and  of  intelle6l,  society 
disregards  and  effaces  them  ;  or,  rather,  it  sets  up  artificial 
differences  in  their  stead, —  gradations  of  rank  and  position, 
which  are  very  often  diametrically  opposed  to  those  which 
Nature  establishes.  The  result  of  this  arrangement  is  to  ele- 
vate those  whom  Nature  has  placed  low,  and  to  depress  the 
few  who  stand  high.  These  latter,  then,  usually  withdraw 
from  society,  where,  as  soon  as  it  is  at  all  numerous,  vulgarity 
reigns  supreme. 

What  offends  a  great  intelle6l  in  society  is  the  equality  of 
rights,  leading  to  equality  of  pretensions,  which  everyone  en- 
joys ;  while  at  the  same  time,  inequality  of  capacity  means  a 
corresponding  disparity  of  social  power.  So-ca.\\ed good  society 
recognizes  every  kind  of  claim  but  that  of  intellect,  which  is  a 
contraband  article  ;  and  people  are  expected  to  exhibit  an  un- 
limited amount  of  patience  towards  every  form  of  folly  and 
stupidity,  perversity  and  dullness  ;  whilst  personal  merit  has 
to  beg  pardon,  as  it  were,  for  being  present,  or  else  conceal  it- 


OUR    RELATION   TO    OURSELVES.  2$ 

self  altogether.     Intelle<ftual  superiority  offends  by  its  very 
existence,  without  any  desire  to  do  so. 

The  worst  of  what  is  called  good  society  is  not  only  that  i 
offers  us  the  companionship  of  people  who  are  unable  to  win 
either  our  praise  or  our  affe6tion,  but  that  it  does  not  allow  of 
our  being  that  which  we  naturally  are  ;  it  compels  us,  for  the 
sake  of  harmony,  to  shrivel  up,  or  even  alter  our  shape  alto- 
gether. Intelle6lual  conversation,  whether  grave  or  humorous, 
is  only  fit  for  intelledlual  society  ;  it  is  downright  abhorrent  to 
ordinary  people,  to  please  whom  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to 
be  commonplace  and  dull.  This  demands  an  a6l  of  severe  self- 
denial  ;  we  have  to  forfeit  three-fourths  of  ourselves  in  order  to 
become  like  other  people.  No  doubt  their  company  may  be 
set  down  against  our  loss  in  this  respe6l ;  but  the  more  a  man 
is  worth,  the  more  he  will  find  that  what  he  gains  does  not 
cover  what  he  loses,  and  that  the  balance  is  on  the  debit  side 
of  the  account ;  for  the  people  with  whom  he  deals  are  gener- 
ally bankrupt, — that  is  to  say,  there  is  nothing  to  be  got  from 
their  society  which  can  compensate  either  for  its  boredom, 
annoyance  and  disagreeableness,  or  for  the  self-denial  which  it 
renders  necessary.  Accordingly,  most  society  is  so  constitu- 
ted as  to  offer  a  good  profit  to  anyone  who  will  exchange  it  for 
solitude. 

Nor  is  this  all.  By  way  of  providing  a  substitute  for  real — I 
mean  intelle6lual — superiority,  which  is  seldom  to  be  met  with, 
and  intolerable  when  it  is  found,  society  has  capriciously  adopt- 
ed a  false  kind  of  superiority,  conventional  in  its  chara(5ler,  and 
resting  upon  arbitrary  principles, — a  tradition,  as  it  were, 
handed  down  in  the  higher  circles,  and,  like  a  password,  sub- 
ject to  alteration  ;  I  refer  to  don-ton  fashion.  Whenever  this 
kind  of  superiority  comes  into  collision  with  the  real  kind,  its 
weakness  is  manifest.  Moreover,  the  presence  of  good  tone 
means  the  absence  oi good  sense. 

No  man  can  be  in  perfe^l  accord  with  any  one  but  himself — 
not  even  with  a  friend  or  the  partner  of  his  life  ;  differences  of 
individuality  and  temperament  are  always  bringing  in  some 


30  COUNSELS   AND    MAXIMS. 

degree  of  discord,  though  it  may  be  a  very  slight  one.  That 
genuine,  profound  peace  of  mind,  that  perfe<5l  tranquillity  of 
soul,  which,  next  to  health,  is  the  highest  blessing  the  earth 
can  give,  is  to  be  attained  only  in  solitude,  and,  as  a  permanent 
mood,  only  in  complete  retirement  ;  and  then,  if  there  is  any- 
thing great  and  rich  in  the  man's  own  self,  his  way  of  life  is  the 
happiest  that  may  be  found  in  this  wretched  world. 

Let  me  speak  plainly.  However  close  the  bond  of  friend- 
ship, love,  marriage — a  man,  ultimately,  looks  to  himself,  to 
his  own  welfare  alone  ;  at  most,  to  his  child's  too.  The  less 
necessity  there  is  for  you  to  come  into  contadl  with  mankind 
in  general,  in  the  relations  whether  of  business  or  of  personal 
intimacy,  the  better  off  you  are.  Loneliness  and  solitude  have 
their  evils,  it  is  true  ;  but  if  you  cannot  feel  them  all  at  once, 
you  can  at  least  see  where  they  He  ;  on  the  other  hand,  society 
is  insidious  in  this  respe6t  ;  as  in  offering  you  what  appears  to 
be  the  pastime  of  pleasing  social  intercourse,  it  works  great  and 
often  irreparable  mischief  The  young  should  early  be  trained 
to  bear  being  left  alone  ;  for  it  is  a  source  of  happiness  and 
peace  of  mind. 

It  follows  from  this  that  a  man  is  best  off  if  he  be  thrown  upon 
his  own  resources  and  can  be  all  in  all  to  himself ;  and  Cicero 
goes  so  far  as  to  say  that  a  man  who  is  in  this  condition  cannot 
fail  to  be  very  happy — nemo  potest  non  beatissimus  esse  qui  est 
ioius  aptus  ex  sese,  quique  in  se  uno  ponit  omnia}  The  more  a 
man  has  in  himself,  the  less  others  can  be  to  him.  The  feeling 
of  self-sufficiency  !  it  is  that  which  restrains  those  whose  per- 
sonal value  is  in  itself  great  riches,  from  such  considerable  sac- 
rifices as  are  demanded  by  intercourse  with  the  world,  let  alone, 
then,  from  a<5lually  practicing  self-denial  by  going  out  of  their 
way  to  seek  it.  Ordinary  people  are  sociable  and  complaisant 
just  from  the  very  opposite  feeling  ; — to  bear  others'  company 
is  easier  for  them  than  to  bear  their  own.  Moreover,  respe<5t 
is  not  paid  in  this  world  to  that  which  has  real  merit  ;  it  is  re- 
served for  that  which  has  none.     So   retirement  is    at  once  a 

^ Paradoxa  Stoidorum:  II. 


OUR    RELATION   TO     OURSELVES.  3I 

proof  and  a  result  of  being  distinguished  by  the  possession  of 
meritorious  qualities.  It  will  therefore  show  real  wisdom  on 
the  part  of  any  one  who  is  worth  anything  in  himself,  to  limit 
his  requirements  as  may  be  necessary,  in  order  to  preserve  or 
extend  his  freedom,  and, — since  a  man  must  come  into  some 
relations  with  his  fellow-men — to  admit  them  to  his  intimacy 
as  little  as  possible. 

I  have  said  that  people  are  rendered  sociable  by  their  inabil- 
ity to  endure  solitude,  that  is  to  say,  their  own  society.  They 
become  sick  of  themselves.  It  is  this  vacuity  of  soul  which 
drives  them  to  intercourse  with  others, — to  travels  in  foreign 
countries.  Their  mind  is  wanting  in  elasticity  ;  it  has  no 
movement  of  its  own,  and  so  they  try  to  give  it  some, — by 
drink,  for  instance.  How  much  drunkenness  is  due  to  this 
cause  alone  !  They  are  always  looking  for  some  form  of  ex- 
citement, of  the  strongest  kind  they  can  bear — the  excitement 
of  being  with  people  of  like  nature  with  themselves  ;  and  if 
they  fail  in  this,  their  mind  sinks  by  its  own  weight,  and  they 
fall  into  a  grievous  lethargy.'  .Such  people,  it  may  be  said, 
possess  only  a  small  fra6lion  of  humanity  in  themselves  ;  and 
it  requires  a  great  many  of  them  put  together  to  make  up  a 
fair  amount  of  it, — to  attain  any  degree  of  consciousness  as  men 
A  man,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word, — a  man  par  excellence — 

'  It  is  a  well-known  faCl,  that  we  can  more  easily  bear  up  under 
evils  which  fall  upon  a  great  many  people  besides  ourselves.  As 
boredom  seems  to  be  an  evil  of  this  kind,  people  band  together  to  offer 
it  a  common  resistance.  The  love  of  life  is  at  bottom  only  the  fear  of 
death  ;  and,  in  the  same  way,  the  social  impulse  does  not  rest  direct- 
ly upon  the  love  of  society,  but  upon  the  fear  of  solitude ;  it  is  not 
alone  the  charm  of  being  in  others'  company  that  people  seek,  it  is 
the  dreary  oppression  of  being  alone — the  monotony  of  their  own 
consciousness — that  they  would  avoid.  They  will  dt)  anything  to 
escape  it, — even  tolerate  bad  companions,  and  put  up  with  the  feeling 
of  constraint  which  all  society  involves,  in  this  case  a  very  burden- 
some one.  But  if  aversion  to  such  society  conquers  the  aversion  to 
being  alone,  they  become  accustomed  to  solitude  and  hardened  to  its 
immediate  efTefts.  They  no  longer  find  solitude  to  be  such  a  very 
bad  thing,  and  settle  down  comfortably  to  it  without  any  hankering 
after  society  ; — and  this,  partly  because  it  is  only  indiredlly  that  they 
need  others'  company,  and  partly  because  they  have  become  accus- 
tomed to  the  benefits  of  being  alone. 


32  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

does  not  represent  a  fradlion,  but  a  whole  number  :  he  is  com- 
plete in  himself. 

Ordinary  society  is,  in  this  respe(ft,  very  like  the  kind  of 
music  to  be  obtained  from  an  orchestra  composed  solely  of 
Russian  horns.  Each  horn  has  only  one  note  ;  and  the  music 
is  produced  by  each  note  coming  in  just  at  the  right  mo- 
ment. In  the  monotonous  sound  of  a  single  horn,  you  have  a 
precise  illustration  of  the  effeS.  of  most  people's  minds.  How 
often  there  seems  to  be  only  one  thought  there  !  and  no  room 
for  any  other.  It  is  easy  to  see  why  people  are  so  bored  ;  and 
also  why  they  are  sociable,  why  they  like  to  go  about  in  crowds 
— why  mankind  is  so  gregarious.  It  is  the  monotony  of  his 
own  nature  that  makes  a  man  find  solitude  intolerable.  Omnis 
stuliitia  laborat  fastidio  stU:  folly  is  truly  its  own  burden.  Put 
a  great  many  men  together,  and  you  may  get  some  result — 
some  music  from  your  horns  ! 

A  man  of  intelle6l  is  like  an  artist  who  gives  a  concert  with- 
out any  help  from  anyone  else,  playing  on  a  single  instrument 
— a  piano,  say,  which  is  a  little  orchestra  in  itself  Such  a 
man  is  a  little  world  in  himself;  and  the  ^K&6i  produced  by 
various  instruments  together,  he  produces  single-handed,  in 
the  unity  of  his  own  consciousness.  Like  the  piano,  he  has  no 
place  in  a  symphony  :  he  is  a  soloist  and  performs  by  himself, 
— in  solitude,  it  may  be  ;  or,  if  in  company  with  other  instru- 
ments, only  as  principal ;  or  for  setting  the  tone,  as  in  singing. 
However,  those  who  are  fond  of  society  from  time  to  time  may 
profit  by  this  simile,  and  lay  it  down  as  a  general  rule  that  de- 
ficiency of  quality  in  those  we  meet  may  be  to  some  extent 
compensated  by  an  increase  in  quantity.  One  man's  company 
may  be  quite  enough,  if  he  is  clever  ;  but  where  you  have  only 
ordinary  people  to  deal  with,  it  is  advisable  to  have  a  great 
many  of  them,  so  that  some  advantage  may  accrue  by  letting 
them  all  work  together, — on  the  analogy  of  the  horns  ;  and 
may  Heaven  grant  you  patience  for  your  task  ! 

That  mental  vacuity  and  barrenness  of  soul  to  which  I  have 
alluded,  is  responsible  for  another   misfortune.     When  men  of 


OUR  RELATION  TO  OURSELVES.  33 

the  better  class  form  a  society  for  promoting  some  noble  or 
ideal  aim,  the  result  almost  always  is  that  the  innumerable  mob 
of  humanity  comes  crowding  in  too,  as  it  always  does  every- 
where, like  vermin — their  obje6l  being  to  try  and  get  rid  of 
boredom,  or  some  other  defe6l  of  their  nature  ;  and  anything 
that  will  effedl  that,  they  seize  upon  at  once,  without  the 
slighest  discrimination.  Some  of  them  will  slip  into  that 
society,  or  push  themselves  in,  and  then  either  soon  destroy 
it  altogether,  or  alter  it  so  much  that  in  the  end  it  comes  to 
have  a  purpose  the  exaft  opposite  of  that  which  it  had  at  first. 

This  is  not  the  only  point  of  view  from  which  the  social  im- 
pulse may  be  regarded.  On  cold  days  people  manage  to  get 
some  warmth  by  crowding  together  ;  and  you  can  warm  your 
mind  in  the  same  way — by  bringing  it  into  contadl  with  others. 
But  a  man  who  has  a  great  deal  of  intelledlual  warmth  in  him- 
self will  stand  in  no  need  of  such  resources.  I  have  written  a 
little  fable  illustrating  this  :  it  may  be  found  elsewhere.  ^  As  a 
general  rule,  it  may  be  said  that  a  man's  sociabiUty  stands  very 
nearly  in  inverse  ratio  to  his  intelledlual  value  :  to  say  that  "so 
and  so "  is  very  unsociable,  is  almost  tantamount  to  saying 
that  he  is  a  man  of  great  capacity. 

Solitude  is  doubly  advantageous  to  such  a  man.  Firstly,  it 
allows  him  to  be  with  himself,  and,  secondly,  it  prevents  him 

'  Translator' s  Note. — The  passage  to  which  Schopenhauer  refers  is 
Parerga:  vol.  ii.  \  413  (4th  edition).    The  fable   is   of  certain  porcu- 

Eines,  who  huddled  together  for  warmth  on  a  cold  day  ;  but  as  they 
egan  to  prick  one  another  with  their  quills,  they  were  obliged  to  dis- 
perse. However  the  cold  drove  them  together  again,  when  just  the 
same  thing  happened.  At  last,  after  many  turns  of  huddling  and  dis- 
persing, they  discovered  that  they  would  be  best  off  by  remaining  at 
a  little  distance  from  one  another.  In  the  same  way,  the  need  of 
society  drives  the  human  porcupines  together — only  to  be  mutually 
repelled  by  the  many  prickly  and  disagreeable  qualities  of  their  na- 
ture. The  moderate  distance  which  they  at  last  discover  to  be  the 
only  tolerable  condition  of  intercourse,  is  the  code  of  politeness  and 
fine  manners  ;  and  those  who  transgress  it  are  roughly  told— in  the 
English  phrase — to  keep  their  distance.  By  this  arrangement  the  mu- 
tual need  of  warmth  is  only  very  moderately  satisfied, — but  then 
people  do  not  get  pricked.  A  man  who  has  some  heat  in  himself 
prefers  to  remain  outside,  where  he  will  neither  prick  other  people 
nor  get  pricked  himself. 


34  COUNSELS   AND    MAXIMS. 

being  with  others — an  advantage  of  great  moment  ;  for  how 
much  constraint,  annoyance,  and  even  danger  there  is  in  all 
intercourse  with  the  world.      Tozit  notre  vtal,  says  La  Bruyere; 
vient  de  ne  pouvoir  ^tre  seul.     It  is  really  a  very  risky,  nay,  a 
fatal  thing,  to  be  sociable  ;  because  it  means  contaft  with  na- 
tures, the  great  majority  of  which  are  bad  morally,  and  dull  or 
perverse,  intelledually.     To  be  unsociable  is  not  to  care  about 
such  people  ;  and  to  have  enough  in  oneself  to  dispense  with 
the  necessity  of  their  company  is  a  great  piece  of  good  for- 
tune ;  because  almost  all  our  sufferings  spring  from  having  to 
do  with  other  people  ;  and  that  destroys  the  peace  of  mind, 
which,  as  I  have  said,  comes  next  after  health  in  the  elements 
of  happiness.     Peace  of  mind  is  impossible  without  a  consider- 
able amount  of  solitude.     The  Cynics  renounced  all  private 
property  in  order  to  attain  the  bliss  of  having  nothing  to  trouble 
them  ;  and  to  renounce  society  with  the  same  objedl  is   the 
wisest  thing  a  man  can  do.     Bernardin  de  Saint  Pierre  has  the 
very  excellent  and  pertinent  remark  that  to  be  sparing  in  re- 
gard to  food  is  a  means  of  health  ;  in  regard  to  society,  a 
means   of  tranquillity— /<2  diete  des  ailmens  nous  rend  la  sanii 
du  corps,  et  celle  des  hommes  la  tranquillity  de  Idme.     To  be 
soon  on  friendly,  or  even  affectionate,  terms  with  solitude  is 
like  winning  a  gold  mine  ;  but  this  is  not  something  which 
everybody  can  do.     The  prime  reason  for  social  intercourse  is 
mutual  need  ;  and  as  soon  as  that  is  satisfied,  boredom  drives 
people  together  once  more.     If  it   were  not   for    these   two 
reasons,  a  man  would  probably  ele6l  to  remain  alone  ;  if  only 
because  solitude  is  the  sole  condition  of  life  which  gives  full 
play  to  that  feeling  of  exclusive  importance  which  every  man 
has   in  his  own  eyes, — as  if  he  were  the  only  person  in  the 
world  !  a  feeling  which,  in  the  throng  and  press  of  real  life, 
soon  shrivels  up  to  nothing,  getting,  at  every  step,  a  painful 
dhnenti.     From  this  point  of  view  it  may  be  said  that  solitude 
is  the  original  and  natural  state  of  man,  where,  like  another 
Adam,  he  is  as  happy  as  his  nature  will  allow. 

But  still,  had  Adam  no  father  or  mother  ?     There  is  another 


OUR    RELATION   TO    OURSELVES.  35 

sense  in  which  solitude  is  not  the  natural  state  ;  for,  at  his  en- 
trance into  the  world,  a  man  finds  himself  with  parents,  broth- 
ers, sisters,  that  is  to  say,  in  society,  and  not  alone.  Accord- 
ingly it  cannot  be  said  that  the  love  of  solitude  is  an  original 
charaderistic  of  human  nature  ;  it  is  rather  the  result  of  experi- 
ence and  refle6lion,  and  these  in  their  turn  depend  upon  the 
development  of  intelledlual  power,  and  increase  with  the  years. 

Speaking  generally,  sociability  stands  in  inverse  ratio  with 
age.  A  little  child  raises  a  piteous  cry  of  fright  if  it  is  left  alone 
for  only  a  few  minutes  ;  and  later  on,  to  be  shut  up  by  itself  is  a 
great  punishment.  Young  people  soon  get  on  very  friendly 
terms  with  one  another  ;  it  is  only  the  few  among  them  of  any 
nobility  of  mind  who  are  glad  now  and  then  to  be  alone  ; — but 
to  spend  the  whole  day  thus  would  be  disagreeable.  A  grown- 
up man  can  easily  do  it ;  it  is  little  trouble  to  him  to  be  much 
alone,  and  it  becomes  less  and  less  trouble  as  he  advances  in 
years.  An  old  man  who  has  outlived  all  his  friends,  and  is 
either  indifferent  or  dead  to  the  pleasures  of  life,  is  in  his  prop- 
er element  in  solitude  ;  and  in  individual  cases  the  special  tend- 
ency to  retirement  and  seclusion  will  always  be  in  direct  pro- 
portion to  intellectual  capacity. 

For  this  tendency  is  not,  as  I  have  said,  a  purely  natural 
one  ;  it  does  not  come  into  existence  as  a  diredl  need  of  human 
nature  ;  it  is  rather  the  effedl  of  the  experience  we  go  through, 
the  produ6l  of  reflection  upon  what  our  needs  really  are  ;  pro- 
ceeding, more  especially,  from  the  insight  we  attain  into  the 
wretched  stuff  of  which  most  people  are  made,  whether  you 
look  at  their  morals  or  their  intelledls.  The  worst  of  it  all  is 
that,  in  the  individual,  moral  and  intelledlual  shortcomings  are 
closely  conneded  and  play  into  each  other's  hands,  so  that  all 
manner  of  disagreeable  results  are  obtained,  which  make  inter- 
course with  most  people  not  only  unpleasant  but  intolerable. 
Hence,  though  the  world  contains  many  things  which  are 
thoroughly  bad,  the  worst  thing  in  it  is  society.  Even  Vol- 
taire, that  sociable  Frenchman,  was  obliged  to  admit  that 
there  are  everywhere  crowds  of  people  not  worth  talking  to  : 


36  COUNSELS  AND   MAXIMS.  ' 

la  terre  est  couverte  de  gens  quine  miritent pas  qu'  on  leur  park. 
And  Petrarch  gives  a  similar  reason  for  wishing  to  be  alone — 
that  tender  spirit  !  so  strong  and  constant  in  his  love  of  seclu- 
sion. The  streams,  the  plains  and  woods  know  well,  he  says, 
how  he  has  tried  to  escape  the  perverse  and  stupid  people  who 
have  missed  the  way  to  heaven  : — 

Cercato  ho  sempre  solitaria  vita 
{Le  rive  it  sanno,  e  le  catnpagne  e  iboschi') 

Per  fuggir  quest'  ingegni  storti  e  loschi 
Che  la  strada  del  del'  hanno  smarrita. 

He  pursues  the  same  strain  in  that  delightful  book  of  his,  De 
Vita  Solitaria,  which  seems  to  have  given  Zimmermann  the 
idea  of  his  celebrated  work  on  Solitude.  It  is  the  secondary 
and  indiredl  charadler  of  the  love  of  seclusion  to  which  Cham- 
fort  alludes  in  the  following  passage,  couched  in  his  sarcastic 
vein  :  O71  dit  quelquefois  d'un  homme  qui  vit  seul,  il  n'aime 
pas  la  sociHi.  O est  souvent  comme  si  on  disait  d'un  homme 
qu'il  n"  aime  pas  la  promenade,  sous  le  pretexte  qu'il  ne  se 
promene  pas  volontiers  le  soir  dans  le  forH  de  Bondy. 

You  will  find  a  similar  sentiment  expressed  by  the  Persian 
poet  Sadi,  in  his  Garden  of  Roses.  Since  that  time,  he  says, 
we  have  taken  leave  of  society,  preferring  the  path  of  seclusion  ; 
for  there  is  safety  in  solitude.  Angelus  Silesius,*  a  very  gentle 
and  Christian  writer,  confesses  to  the  same  feeling,  in  his  own 
mythical  language.  Herod,  he  says,  is  the  common  enemy  ; 
and  when,  as  with  Joseph,  God  warns  us  of  danger,  we  fly 
from  the  world  to  solitude,  from  Bethlehem  to  Egypt ;  or  else 
suffering  and  death  await  us  ! — 

Herodes  ist  ein  Feind ;  der  foseph  der  Ver stand, 

Dem  machte  Gott  die  Gefahr  itn  Traum  {in  Geist)  bekannt ; 

Die  Welt  ist  Bethlehem,  Aegypten  Einsatnkeit, 

Fleuch,  meine  Seele  !  fleuch,  sonst  stirbest  du  vor  Leid. 

Giordano  Bruno  also  declares  himself  a  friend  of  seclusion. 
Tanti  uomini,  he  says,  che  in  terra  hanno  voluto  gustare  vita 

'  Translator' s  Note. — Angelus  Silesius,  pseudonym  for  Johannes 
Scheffler,  a  physician  and  mystic  poet  of  the  seventeenth  century 
(1624-77). 


OUR    RELATION  TO    OURSELVES.  37 

celeste y  dissero  con  una  voce,  ' '  ecce  elongavi fugiens  et  tnansi  in 
solitudine  " — those  who  in  this  world  have  desired  a  foretaste 
of  the  divine  Hfe,  have  always  proclaimed  with  one  voice  : 

Lo  /  then  would  I  wander  far  off ; 
I  would  lodge  in  the  wilderness.^ 

And  in  the  work  from  which  I  have  already  quoted,  Sadi  says 
of  himself :  In  disgust  with  my  friends  at  Damascus,  I  with- 
drew into  the  desert  about  Jerusalem,  to  seek  the  society  of  the 
beasts  of  the  field.  In  short,  the  same  thing  has  been  said  by 
all  whom  Prometheus  has  formed  out  of  better  clay.  What 
pleasure  could  they  find  in  the  company  of  people  with  whom 
their  only  common  ground  is  just  what  is  lowest  and  least 
noble  in  their  own  nature — the  part  of  them  that  is  common 
place,  trivial  and  vulgar  ?  What  do  they  want  with  people 
who  cannot  rise  to  a  higher  level,  and  for  whom  nothing  re- 
mains but  to  drag  others  down  to  theirs  ?  for  this  is  what  they 
aim  at.  It  is  an  aristocratic  feeling  that  is  at  the  bottom  of 
this  propensity  to  seclusion  and  solitude. 

Rascals  are  always  sociable — more's  the  pity  !  and  the  chief 
sign  that  a  man  has  any  nobility  in  his  charadler  is  the  little 
pleasure  he  takes  in  others'  company.  He  prefers  solitude 
more  and  more,  and,  in  course  of  time,  comes  to  see  that,  with 
few  exceptions,  the  world  offers  no  choice  beyond  solitude  on 
one  side  and  vulgarity  on  the  other.  This  may  sound  a  hard 
thing  to  say  ;  but  even  Angelus  Silesius,  with  all  his  Christian 
feelings  of  gentleness  and  love,  was  obliged  to  admit  the  truth 
of  it.  However  painful  solitude  may  be,  he  says,  be  careful 
not  to  be  vulgar  ;  for  then  you  may  find  a  desert  every- 
where : — 

Die  Einsamkeit  ist  noth :  doch  sei  nur  nicht  gemein, 
So  kannst  du  uberall  in  einer  Waste  sein. 

It  is  natural  for  great  minds — the  true  teachers  of  humanity 
— to  care  little  about  the  constant  company  of  others  ;  just  as 
little  as  the  schoolmaster  cares  for  joining  in  the  gambols  of  the 
noisy  crowd  of  boys  which  surrounds  him.     The  mission  of 

>  Psalms,  Iv.  7. 


38  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

these  great  minds  is  to  guide  mankind  over  the  sea  of  error  to 
the  haven  of  truth — to  draw  it  forth  from  the  dark  abysses  of  a 
barbarous  vulgarity  up  into  the  Hght  of  culture  and  refinement. 
Men  of  great  intelledt  live  in  the  world  without  really  belong- 
ing to  it  ;  and  so,  from  their  earliest  years,  they  feel  that  there 
is  a  perceptible  difference  between  them  and  other  people. 
But  it  is  only  gradually,  with  the  lapse  of  years,  that  they 
come  to  a  clear  understanding  of  their  position.  Their  intel- 
lectual isolation  is  then  reinforced  by  actual  seclusion  in  their 
manner  of  life  ;  they  let  no  one  approach  who  is  not  in  some 
degree  emancipated  from  the  prevailing  vulgarity. 

From  what  has  been  said  it  is  obvious  that  the  love  of  soli- 
tude is  not  a  dired,  original  impulse  in  human  nature,  but 
rather  something  secondary  and  of  gradual  growth.  It  is  the 
more  distinguishing  feature  of  nobler  minds,  developed  not 
without  some  conquest  of  natural  desires,  and  now  and  then  in 
a6lual  opposition  to  the  promptings  of  Mephistopheles — bid- 
ding you  exchange  a  morose  and  soul-destroying  soHtude  for 
life  amongst  men,  for  society  ;  even  the  worst,  he  says,  will 
give  a  sense  of  human  fellowship  : — 

Hbr'  auf  tnit  deinem  Grant  zit  spielen, 
Der,  wie  ein  Geier,  dir  am  Leben  frisst : 
Die  schlechteste  Gesellschaft  Usst  dich  fuhlen 
Dass  du  ein  Mensch  mit  Menschen  bist. ' 

To  be  alone  is  the  fate  of  all  great  minds — a  fate  deplored  at 
times,  but  still  always  chosen  as  the  less  grievous  of  two  evils. 
As  the  years  increase,  it  always  becomes  easier  to  say,  Dare  to 
be  wise — sapere  aude.  And  after  sixty,  the  inclination  to  be 
alone  grows  into  a  kind  of  real,  natural  instin6l ;  for  at  that  age 
everything  combines  in  favor  of  it.  The  strongest  impulse — 
the  love  of  woman's  society — has  little  or  no  effe6l ;  it  is  the 
sexless  condition  of  old  age  which  lays  the  foundation  of  a 
certain  self-sufficiency,  and  that  gradually  absorbs  all  desire  for 
others'  company.  A  thousand  illusions  and  follies  are  over- 
come ;  the  active  years  of  life  are  in  most  cases  gone  ;  a  man 
has  no  more  expectations  or  plans  or  intentions.  The  genera- 
>  Goethe's  Faust,  Part  I.,  1281-5. 


OUR    RELATION   TO    OURSELVES.  39 

tion  to  which  he  belonged  has  passed  away,  and  a  new  race 
has  sprung  up  which  looks  upon  him  as  essentially  outside  its 
sphere  of  adlivity.  And  then  the  years  pass  more  quickly  as 
we  become  older,  and  we  want  to  devote  our  remaining  time 
to  the  intellectual  rather  than  to  the  practical  side  of  life.  For, 
provided  that  the  mind  retains  its  faculties,  the  amount  of 
knowledge  and  experience  we  have  acquired,  together  with  the 
facility  we  have  gained  in  the  use  of  our  powers,  makes  it  then 
more  than  ever  easy  and  interesting  to  us  to  pursue  the  study 
of  any  subjedl.  A  thousand  things  become  clear  which  were 
formerly  enveloped  in  obscurity,  and  results  are  obtained 
which  give  a  feeling  of  difficulties  overcome.  From  long  ex- 
perience of  men,  we  cease  to  expert  much  from  them  ;  we  find 
that,  on  the  whole,  people  do  not  gain  by  a  nearer  acquaint- 
ance ;  and  that — apart  from  a  few  rare  and  fortunate  exceptions 
— we  have  come  across  none  but  defedtive  specimens  of  human 
nature  which  it  is  advisable  to  leave  in  peace.  We  are  no 
more  subje6l  to  the  ordinary  illusions  of  life  ;  and  as,  in  indi- 
vidual instances,  we  soon  see  what  a  man  is  made  of,  we  seldom 
feel  any  inclination  to  come  into  closer  relations  with  him. 
Finally,  isolation — our  own  society — has  become  a  habit,  as  it 
were  a  second  nature  with  us,  more  especially  if  we  have  been 
on  friendly  terms  with  it  from  our  youth  up.  The  love  of 
solitude  which  was  formerly  indulged  only  at  the  expense  of 
our  desire  for  society,  has  now  come  to  be  the  simple  quality 
of  our  natural  disposition — the  element  proper  to  our  life,  as 
water  to  a  fish.  This  is  why  anyone  who  possesses  a  unique 
individuality — unlike  others  and  therefore  necessarily  isolated 
— feels  that,  as  he  becomes  older,  his  position  is  no  longer  so 
burdensome  as  when  he  was  young. 

For,  as  a  matter  of  fadl,  this  very  genuine  privilege  of  old 
age  is  one  which  can  be  enjoyed  only  if  a  man  is  possessed  of 
a  certain  amount  of  intelle6l ;  it  will  be  appreciated  most  of  all 
where  there  is  real  mental  power  ;  but  in  some  degree  by 
every  one.  It  is  only  people  of  very  barren  and  vulgar  nature 
who  will  be  just  as  sociable  in  their  old  age  as  they  were  in 
their  youth.     But  then  they  become  troublesome  to  a  society 


40  COUNSELS    AND    MAXIMS. 

to  which  they  are  no  longer  suited,  and,  at  most,  manage  to 
be  tolerated  ;  whereas,  they  were  formerly  in  great  request. 

There  is  another  aspe<5l  of  this  inverse  proportion  between 
age  and  sociability — the  way  in  which  it  conduces  to  education. 
The  younger  that  people  are,  the  more  in  every  respe6t  they 
have  to  learn  ;  and  it  is  just  in  youth  that  Nature  provides  a  sys- 
tem of  mutual  education,  so  that  mere  intercourse  with  others, 
at  that  time  of  life,  carries  instruction  with  it.  Human  society, 
from  this  point  of  view,  resembles  a  huge  academy  of  learning, 
on  the  Bell  and  Lancaster  system,  opposed  to  the  system  o 
education  by  means  of  books  and  schools,  as  something  arti- 
ficial and  contrary  to  the  institutions  of  Nature.  It  is  therefore 
a  very  suitable  arrangement  that,  in  his  young  days,  a  man 
should  be  a  very  diligent  student  at  the  place  of  learning  pro- 
vided by  Nature  herself 

But  there  is  nothing  in  life  which  has  not  some  drawback — 
nihil  est  ab  omni  parte  beatum,  as  Horace  says  ;  or,  in  the 
words  of  an  Indian  proverb,  no  lotus  without  a  stalk.  Seclu- 
sion, which  has  so  many  advantages,  has  also  its  little  annoy- 
ances and  drawbacks,  which  are  small,  however,  in  comparison 
with  those  of  society  ;  hence  anyone  who  is  worth  much  in 
himself  will  get  on  better  without  other  people  than  with  them. 
But  amongst  the  disadvantages  of  seclusion  there  is  one  which 
is  not  so  easy  to  see  as  the  rest.  It  is  this  :  when  people  re- 
main indoors  all  day,  they  become  physically  very  sensitive  to 
atmospheric  changes,  so  that  every  little  draught  is  enough  to 
make  them  ill ;  so  with  our  temper  ;  a  long  course  of  seclusion 
makes  it  so  sensitive  that  the  most  trivial  incidents,  words,  or 
even  looks,  are  sufficient  to  disturb  or  to  vex  and  offend  us — 
little  things  which  are  unnoticed  by  those  who  live  in  the 
turmoil  of  life. 

When  you  find  human  society  disagreeable  and  feel  yourself 
justified  in  flying  to  solitude,  you  may  be  so  constituted  as  to 
be  unable  to  bear  the  depression  of  it  for  any  length  of  time, 
which  will  probably  be  the  case  if  you  are  young.  Let  me  ad- 
vise you,  then,  to  form  the  habit  of  taking  some  of  your  soli- 
tude with  you  into  society,  to  learn  to  be  to  some  extent  alone 


OUR   RELATION   TO    OURSELVES.  41 

even  though  you  are  in  company  ;  not  to  say  at  once  what  you 
think,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  not  to  attach  too  precise  a 
meaning  to  what  others  say  ;  rather,  not  to  expe6l  much  of 
them,  either  morally  or  intelleftually,  and  to  strengthen  your- 
self in  the  feeling  of  indifference  to  their  opinion,  which  is  the 
surest  way  of  always  pradlicing  a  praiseworthy  toleration.  If 
you  do  that,  you  will  not  live  so  much  with  other  people, 
though  you  may  appear  to  move  amongst  them  :  your  relation 
to  them  will  be  of  a  purely  obje6live  chara6ler.  This  precau- 
tion will  keep  you  from  too  close  contaft  with  society,  and 
therefore  secure  you  against  being  contaminated  or  even  out- 
raged by  it.*  Society  is  in  this  respedl  like  a  fire — the  wise 
man  warming  himself  at  a  proper  distance  from  it ;  not  coming 
too  close,  like  the  fool,  who,  on  getting  scorched,  runs  away 
and  shivers  in  solitude,  loud  in  his  complaint  that  the  fire  bums. 
Section  to.  Envy  is  natural  to  man;  and  still,  it  is  at  once 
a  vice  and  a  source  of  misery,'  We  should  treat  it  as  the 
enemy  of  our  happiness,  and  stifle  it  like  an  evil  thought.  This 
is  the  advice  given  by  Seneca  ;  as  he  well  puts  it,  we  shall  be 
pleased  with  what  we  have,  if  we  avoid  the  self-torture  of  com- 
paring our  own  lot  with  some  other  and  happier  one — nostra 
nos  sine  comparatione  deleSlent ;  nunquam  erit  felix  quern 
iorquebit felicior.*  And  again,  quum  adspexeris  quot  te  ante- 
cedant,  cogita  quot  sequantur* — if  a  great  many  people  appear 
to  be  better  off  than  yourself,  think  how  many  there  are  in  a 
worse  position.  It  is  a  fadl  that  if  real  calamity  comes  upon  us, 
the  most  effe6live  consolation — though  it  springs  from  the 
same  source  as  envy — is  just  the  thought  of  greater  misfortunes 
than  ours  ;  and  the  next  best  is  the  society  of  those  who  are  in 
the  same  ill  luck  as  we — the  partners  of  our  sorrows. 

'  This  restri<5led,  or,  as  it  were,  entrenched  kind  of  sociability  has 
been  dramatically  illustrated  in  a  play — well  worth  reading — of  Mora- 
tin's,  entitled  £1  Cafe  o  sea  la  Comedia  Nuova  (The  Cafe  or  the  New 
Comedy),  chiefly  by  one  of  the  characters,  Don  Pedro  and  especially 
in  the  second  and  third  scenes  of  the  first  ad;. 

*  Envy  shows  how  unhappy  people  are  ;  and  their  constant  attention 
to  what  others  do  and  leave  undone,  how  much  they  are  bored. 

^ De  Ira:  iii.,  30.  ^Epist.  xv. 


II     «>tl   ■■ 


I  J"     ■  Ii|i»<^B^»^«^p^^HP-^?(|!J|^^pp^^s«Jipj»fl|p^TpPHI)ll?> 


42  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

So  much  for  the  envy  which  we  may  feel  towards  others. 
As  regards  the  envy  which  we  may  excite  in  them,  it  should 
always  be  remembered  that  no  form  of  hatred  is  so  implacable 
as  the  hatred  that  comes  from  envy  ;  and  therefore  we  should 
always  carefully  refrain  from  doing  anything  to  rouse  it ;  nay, 
as  with  many  another  form  of  vice,  it  is  better  altogether  to 
renounce  any  pleasure  there  may  be  in  it,  because  of  the  seri- 
ous nature  of  its  consequences. 

Aristocracies  are  of  three  kinds  :  (i)  of  birth  and  rank  ;  (2)  of 
wealth  ;  and  (3)  of  intelledl.  The  last  is  really  the  most  dis- 
tinguished of  the  three,  and  its  claim  to  occupy  the  first  posi- 
tion comes  to  be  recognized,  if  it  is  only  allowed  time  to  work. 
So  eminent  a  king  as  Frederick  the  Great  admitted  it — les 
dmes  privilegiies  rangent  cl  V  igal  des  souverains,  as  he  said  to 
his  chamberlain,  when  the  latter  expressed  his  surprise  that 
Voltaire  should  have  a  seat  at  the  table  reserved  for  kings  and 
princes,  whilst  ministers  and  generals  were  relegated  to  the 
chamberlain's. 

Every  one  of  these  aristocracies  is  surrounded  by  a  host  of 
envious  persons.  If  you  belong  to  one  of  them,  they  will  be 
secretly  embittered  against  you  ;  and  unless  they  are  restrained 
by  fear,  they  will  always  be  anxious  to  let  you  understand  that 
you  are  no  better  than  they.  It  is  by  their  anxiety  to  let  you 
know  this,  that  they  betray  how  greatly  they  are  conscious 
that  the  opposite  is  the  truth. 

The  line  of  condu(5l  to  be  pursued  if  you  are  exposed  to 
envy,  is  to  keep  the  envious  persons  at  a  distance,  and,  as  far 
as  possible,  avoid  all  contadl  with  them,  so  that  there  may  be  a 
wide  gulf  fixed  between  you  and  them  ;  if  this  cannot  be  done, 
to  bear  their  attacks  with  the  greatest  composure.  In  the  latter 
case,  the  very  thing  that  provokes  the  attack  will  also  neutral- 
ize it.     This  is  what  appears  to  be  generally  done. 

The  members  of  one  of  these  aristocracies  usually  get  on 
very  well  with  those  of  another,  and  there  is  no  call  for  envy 
between  them,  because  their  several  privileges  effe<5l  an  equi- 
poise. 


OUR    RELATION    TO    OURSELVES.  43 

Section  ii.  Give  mature  and  repeated  consideration  to 
any  plan  before  you  proceed  to  carry  it  out  ;  and  even  after 
you  have  thoroughly  turned  it  over  in  your  mind,  make  some 
concession  to  the  incompetency  of  human  judgment ;  for  it 
may  always  happen  that  circumstances  which  cannot  be  inves- 
tigated or  foreseen,  will  come  in  and  upset  the  whole  of  your 
calculation.  This  is  a  reflection  that  will  always  influence  the 
negative  side  of  the  balance — a  kind  of  warning  to  refrain  from 
unnecessary  a6lion  in  matters  of  importance — quieta  non  tnovere. 
But  having  once  made  up  your  mind  and  begun  your  work,  you 
must  let  it  run  its  course  and  abide  the  result — not  worry  your- 
self by  fresh  refledtions  on  what  is  already  accomplished,  or  by 
a  renewal  of  your  scruples  on  the  score  of  possible  danger  : 
free  your  mind  from  the  subje6l  altogether,  and  refuse  to  go 
into  it  again,  secure  in  the  thought  that  you  gave  it  mature  at- 
tention at  the  proper  time.  This  is  the  same  advice  as  is  given 
by  an  Italian  proverb — legala  bene  e  poi  lascia  la  andare — 
which  Goethe  has  translated  thus  :  See  well  to  your  girths,  and 
then  ride  on  boldly.* 

And  if,  notwithstanding  that,  you  fail,  it  is  because  all  human 
affairs  are  the  sport  of  chance  and  error.  Socrates,  the  wisest 
of  men,  needed  the  warning  voice  of  his  good  genius,  or 
iatfibviav,  to  enable  him  to  do  what  was  right  in  regard  to  his 
own  personal  affairs,  or  at  any  rate,  to  avoid  mistakes  ;  which 
argues  that  the  human  intelle6l  is  incompetent  for  the  purpose. 
There  is  a  saying — which  is  reported  to  have  originated  with 
one  of  the  Popes — that  when  misfortune  happens  to  us,  the 
blame  of  it,  at  least  in  some  degree,  attaches  to  ourselves.  If 
this  is  not  true  absolutely  and  in  every  instance,  it  is  certainly 
true  in  the  great  majority  of  cases.  It  even  looks  as  if  this 
truth  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  effort  people  make  as  far 
as  possible  to  conceal  their  misfortunes,  and  to  put  the  best 
face  they  can  upon  them,  for  fear  lest  their  misfortunes  may 
show  how  much  they  are  to  blame. 

'  It  may  be  observed,  in  passing,  that  a  great  many  of  the  maxims 
which  Goethe  puts  under  the  head  of  Proverbial,  are  translations, 
from  the  Italian. 


44      "  •'  COUNSELS  AND   MAXIMS.         ^ 

Section  12.  In  the  case  of  a  misfortune  which  has  already 
happened  and  therefore  cannot  be  altered,  you  should  not 
allow  yourself  to  think  that  it  might  have  been  otherwise  ; 
still  less,  that  it  might  have  been  avoided  by  such  and  such 
means  ;  for  reflexions  of  this  kind  will  only  add  to  your  distress 
and  make  it  intolerable,  so  that  you  will  become  a  tormentor 
of  yourself — lavrovTCfiupovfievo^.  It  is  better  to  follow  the  example 
of  King  David  ;  who,  as  long  as  his  son  lay  on  the  bed  of 
sickness,  assailed  Jehovah  with  unceasing  supplications  and 
entreaties  for  his  recovery ;  but  when  he  was  dead,  snapped 
his  fingers  and  thought  no  more  of  it.  If  you  are  not  light- 
hearted  enough  for  that,  you  can  take  refuge  in  fatalism,  and 
have  the  great  truth  revealed  to  you  that  everything  which 
happens  is  the  result  of  necessity,  and  therefore  inevitable. 

However  good  this  advice  may  be,  it  is  one-sided  and  par- 
tial. In  relieving  and  quieting  us  for  the  moment,  it  is  no 
doubt  effe6tive  enough  ;  but  when  our  misfortunes  have  result- 
ed— as  is  usually  the  case — from  our  own  carelessness  or  folly, 
or,  at  any  rate,  pardy  by  our  own  fault,  it  is  a  good  thing  to 
consider  how  they  might  have  been  avoided,  and  to  consider 
it  often  in  spite  of  its  being  a  tender  subject — ^a  salutary  form 
of  self-discipline,  which  will  make  us  wiser  and  better  men  for 
the  future.  If  we  have  made  obvious  mistakes,  we  should  not 
try,  as  we  generally  do,  to  gloss  them  over,  or  to  find  some- 
thing to  excuse  or  extenuate  them  ;  we  should  admit  to  our- 
selves that  we  have  committed  faults,  and  open  our  eyes  wide 
to  all  their  enormity,  in  order  that  we  may  firmly  resolve  to 
avoid  them  in  time  to  come.  To  be  sure,  that  means  a  great 
deal  of  self-infli6led  pain,  in  the  shape  of  discontent,  but  it 
should  be  remembered  that  to  spare  the  rod  is  to  spoil  the 

child — 6  fiT)  Sapeic  uvdpzmoc  ov  iraideverai. ' 

Section  13.  In  all  matters  affe<5ling  our  weal  or  woe,  we 
should  be  careful  not  to  let  our  imagination  run  away  with  us, 
and  build  no  castles  in  the  air.  In  the  first  place,  they  are  ex- 
pensive to  build,  because  we  have  to  pull  them  down  again 
immediately,  and  that  is  a  source  of  grief.     We  should  be  still 

1  Menander.     Monost :  422. 


OUR    RELATION   TO    OURSELVES.  45 

more  on  our  guard  against  distressing  our  hearts  by  depi6^ing 
possible  misfortunes.  If  these  were  misfortunes  of  a  purely 
imaginary  kind,  or  very  remote  and  unlikely,  we  should  at 
once  see,  on  awaking  from  our  dream,  that  the  whole  thing 
was  mere  illusion  ;  we  should  rejoice  all  the  more  in  a  reality 
better  than  our  dreams,  or,  at  most,  be  warned  against  mis- 
fortunes which,  though  very  remote,  were  still  possible.  These, 
however,  are  not  the  sort  of  playthings  in  which  imagination 
delights  ;  it  is  only  in  idle  hours  that  we  build  castles  in  the 
air,  and  they  are  always  of  a  pleasing  description.  The  matter 
which  goes  to  form  gloomy  dreams  are  mischances  which  to 
some  extent  really  threaten  us,  though  it  be  from  some  dis- 
tance ;  imagination  makes  them  look  larger  and  nearer  and 
more  terrible  than  they  are  in  reality.  This  is  a  kind  of  dream 
which  cannot  be  so  readily  shaken  off  on  awaking  as  a  pleasant 
one  ;  for  a  pleasant  dream  is  soon  dispelled  by  reality,  leaving, 
at  most,  a  feeble  hope  lying  in  the  lap  of  possibility.  Once 
we  have  abandoned  [ourselves  to  a  fit  of  the  blues,  visions  are 
conjured  up  which  do  not  so  easily  vanish  again  ;  for  it  is  always 
just  possible  that  the  visions  may  be  reahzed.  But  we  are  not 
always  able  to  estimate  the  exa6l  degree  of  possibility  :  possi- 
bility may  easily  pass  into  probability  ;  and  thus  we  deliver 
ourselves  up  to  torture.  Therefore  we  should  be  careful  not 
to  be  over-anxious  on  any  matter  affe6ling  our  weal  or  our 
woe,  not  to  carry  our  anxiety  to  unreasonable  or  injudicious 
limits  ;  but  coolly  and  dispassionately  to  deliberate  upon  the 
matter,  as  though  it  were  an  abstract  question  which  did  not 
touch  us  in  particular.  We  should  give  no  play  to  imagina- 
tion here  ;  for  imagination  is  not  judgment — it  only  conjures 
up  visions,  inducing  an  unprofitable  and  often  very  painful 
mood. 

The  rule  on  which  I  am  here  insisting  should  be  most  care- 
fully observed  towards  evening.  For  as  darkness  makes  us 
timid  and  apt  to  see  terrifying  shapes  everywhere,  there  is 
something  similar  in  the  effe61:  of  indistin6t  thought ;  and  un- 
certainty  always  brings  with  it  a  sense  of  danger.     Hence, 


46  COUNSELS    AND    MAXIMS. 

towards  evening,  when  our  powers  of  thought  and  judgment 
are  relaxed, — at  the  hour,  as  it  were,  of  subjective  darkness, — 
the  intelle<5l  becomes  tired,  easily  confused,  and  unable  to  get 
at  the  bottom  of  things  ;  and  if,  in  that  state,  we  meditate  on 
matters  of  personal  interest  to  ourselves,  they  soon  assume  a 
dangerous  and  terrifying  aspedl.  This  is  mostly  the  case  at 
night,  when  we  are  in  bed  ;  for  then  the  mind  is  fully  relaxed, 
and  the  po.ver  of  judgment  quite  unequal  to  its  duties  ;  but 
imagination  is  still  awake.  Night  gives  a  black  look  to  every- 
thing, whatever  it  may  be.  This  is  why  our  thoughts,  just  be- 
fore we  go  to  sleep,  or  as  we  lie  awake  through  the  hours  of 
the  night,  are  usually  such  confusions  and  perversions  of  fadls 
as  dreams  themselves  ;  and  when  our  thoughts  at  that  time 
are  concentrated  upon  our  own  concerns,  they  are  generally  as 
black  and  monstrous  as  possible.  In  the  morning  all  such 
nightmares  vanish  like  dreams  :  as  the  Spanish  proverb  has  it, 
noche  tinta,  bianco  eldia — the  night  is  colored,  the  day  is  white. 

But  even  towards  nightfall,  as  soon  as  the  candles  are  lit,  the 
mind,  like  the  eye,  no  longer  sees  things  so  clearly  as  by  day  : 
it  is  a  time  unsuited  to  serious  meditation,  especially  on  un- 
pleasant subjedls.  The  morning  is  the  proper  time  for  that — 
as  indeed  for  all  efforts  without  exception,  whether  mental  or 
bodily.  For  the  morning  is  the  youth  of  the  day,  when  every- 
thing is  bright,  fresh,  and  easy  of  attainment ;  we  feel  strong 
then,  and  all  our  faculties  are  completely  at  our  disposal.  Do 
not  shorten  the  morning  by  getting  up  late,  or  waste  it  in  un- 
worthy occupations  or  in  talk  ;  look  upon  it  as  the  quintessence 
of  life,  as  to  a  certain  extent  sacred.  Evening  is  like  old  age  : 
we  are  languid,  talkative,  silly.  Each  day  is  a  little  life  :  every 
waking  and  rising  a  little  birth,  every  fresh  morning  a  little 
youth,  every  going  to  rest  and  sleep  a  little  death. 

But  condition  of  health,  sleep,  nourishment,  temperature, 
weather,  surroundings,  and  much  else  that  is  purely  external, 
have,  in  general,  an  important  influence  upon  our  mood  and 
therefore  upon  our  thoughts.  Hence  both  our  view  of  any 
matter  and  our  capacity  for  any  work  are  very  much  subje<5i 


OUR    RELATION   TO    OURSELVES.  47 

to  time  and  place.  So  it  is  best  to  profit  by  a  good  mood — 
for  how  seldom  it  comes  ! — 

Nehmt  die  gute  Stimmung  wahr, 
Denn  sie  kotnmt  so  selten. ' 

We  are  not  always  able  to  form  new  ideas  about  our  surround- 
ings, or  to  command  original  thoughts  :  they  come  if  they  will, 
and  when  they  will.  And  so,  too,  we  cannot  always  succeed  in 
completely  considering  some  personal  matter  at  the  precise 
time  at  which  we  have  determined  beforehand  to  consider  it, 
and  just  when  we  set  ourselves  to  do  so.  For  the  peculiar 
train  of  thought  which  is  favorable  to  it  may  suddenly  become 
a6live  without  any  special  call  being  made  upon  it,  and  we 
may  then  follow  it  up  with  keen  interest.  In  this  way  reflec- 
tion, too,  chooses  its  own  time. 

This  reining-in  of  the  imagination  which  I  am  recommend- 
ing, will  also  forbid  us  to  summon  up  the  memory  of  the  past 
misfortune,  to  paint  a  dark  pi6lureof  the  injustice  or  harm  that 
has  been  done  us,  the  losses  we  have  sustained,  the  insults, 
slights  and  annoyances  to  which  we  have  been  exposed  :  for 
to  do  that  is  to  rouse  into  fresh  life  all  those  hateful  passions 
long  laid  asleep — the  anger  and  resentment  which  disturb  and 
pollute  our  nature.  In  an  excellent  parable,  Proclus,  the 
Neoplatonist,  points  out  how  in  every  town  the  mob  dwells 
side  by  side  with  those  who  are  rich  and  distinguished  :  so,  too, 
in  every  man,  be  he  never  so  noble  and  dignified,  there  is,  in 
the  depth  of  his  nature,  a  mob  of  low  and  vulgar  desires  which 
constitute  him  an  animal.  It  will  not  do  to  let  this  mob  revolt 
or  even  so  much  as  peep  forth  from  its  hiding-place  ;  'it  is  hide- 
ous of  mien,  and  its  rebel  leaders  are  those  flights  of  imagina- 
tion which  I  have  been  describing.  The  smallest  annoyance, 
whether  it  comes  from  our  fellow-men  or  from  the  things 
around  us,  may  swell  up  into  a  monster  of  dreadful  aspe<Sl, 
putting  us  at  our  wits'  end — and  all  because  we  go  on  brood- 
ing over  our  troubles  and  painting  them  in  the  most  glaring 
colors  and  on  the  largest  scale.     It  is  much  better  to  take  a 

'  Goethe. 


48  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

very  calm  and  prosaic  view  of  what  is  disagreeable  ;  for  that  is 
the  easiest  way  of  bearing  it. 

If  you  hold  small  objefls  close  to  your  eyes,  you  limit  your 
field  of  vision  and  shut  out  the  world.  And,  in  the  same  way, 
the  people  or  the  things  which  stand  nearest,  even  though 
they  are  of  the  very  smallest  consequence,  are  apt  to  claim  an 
amount  of  attention  much  beyond  their  due,  occupying  us  dis- 
agreeably, and  leaving  no  room  for  serious  thoughts  and 
affairs  of  importance.    We  ought  to  work  against  this  tendency. 

Section  14.  The  sight  of  things  which  do  not  belong  to  us 
is  very  apt  to  raise  the  thought :  Ah,  if  that  were  only  mine  / 
making  us  sensible  of  our  privation.  Instead  of  that  we  should 
do  better  by  more  frequently  putting  to  ourselves  the  opposite 
case  :  Ah,  if  that  were  not  mine.  What  I  mean  is  that  we 
should  sometimes  try  to  look  upon  our  possessions  in  the  light 
in  which  they  would  appear  if  we  had  lost  them  ;  whatever 
they  may  be,  property,  health,  friends,  a  wife  or  child  or  some- 
one else  we  love,  our  horse  or  our  dog — it  is  usually  only  when 
we  have  lost  them  that  we  begin  to  find  out  their  value.  But 
if  we  come  to  look  at  things  in  the  way  I  recommend,  we  shall 
be  doubly  the  gainers  ;  we  shall  at  once  get  more  pleasure  out 
of  them  than  we  did  before,  and  we  shall  do  everything  in  our 
power  to  prevent  the  loss  of  them  ;  for  instance,  by  not  risking 
our  property,  or  angering  our  friends,  or  exposing  our  wives 
to  temptation,  or  being  careless  about  our  children's  health, 
and  so  on. 

We  often  try  to  banish  the  gloom  and  despondency  of  the 
present  by  speculating  upon  our  chances  of  success  in  the 
future  ;  a  process  which  leads  us  to  invent  a  great  many  chi- 
merical hopes.  Every  one  of  them  contains  the  germ  of  illu- 
sion, and  disappointment  is  inevitable  when  our  hopes  are 
shattered  by  the  hard  fa6ls  of  life. 

It  is  less  hurtful  to  take  the  chances  of  misfortune  as  a  theme 
for  speculation  ;  because,  in  doing  so,  we  provide  ourselves  at 
once  with  measures  of  precaution  against  it,  and  a  pleasant  sur- 
prise when  it  fails  to  make  its  appearance.  Is  it  not  a  fa6l  that 
we  always  feel  a  marked  improvement  in  our  spirits  when  we 


OUR   RELATION    TO   OURSELVES.  49 

begin  to  get  over  a  period  of  anxiety  ?  I  may  go  further  and 
say  that  there  is  some  use  in  occasionally  looking  upon  terrible 
misfortunes — such  as  might  happen  to  us — as  though  they  had 
a6tually  happened,  for  then  the  trivial  reverses  which  subse- 
quently come  in  reality,  are  much  easier  to  bear.  It  is  a 
source  of  consolation  to  look  back  upon  those  great  misfor- 
tunes which  never  happened.  But  in  following  out  this  rule, 
care  must  be  taken  not  to  negle6l  what  I  have  said  in  the  pre- 
ceding se6tion. 

Section  15.  The  things  which  engage  our  attention — 
whether  they  are  matters  of  business  or  ordinary  events — are 
of  such  diverse  kinds,  that,  if  taken  quite  separately  and  in  no 
fixed  order  or  relation,  they  present  a  medley  of  the  most  glar- 
ing contrasts,  with  nothing  in  common,  except  that  they  one 
and  all  affe6t  us  in  particular.  There  must  be  a  corresponding 
abruptness  in  the  thoughts  and  anxieties  which  these  various 
matters  arouse  in  us,  if  our  thoughts  are  to  be  in  keeping  with 
their  various  subjedls.  Therefore,  in  setting  about  anything, 
the  first  step  is  to  withdraw  our  attention  from  everything  else  : 
this  will  enable  us  to  attend  to  each  matter  at  its  own  time,  and 
to  enjoy  or  put  up  with  it,  quite  apart  from  any  thought  of  our 
remaining  interests.  Our  thoughts  must  be  arranged,  as  it 
were,  in  little  drawers,  so  that  we  may  open  one  without  dis- 
turbing any  of  the  others. 

In  this  way  we  can  keep  the  heavy  burden  of  anxiety  from 
weighing  upon  us  so  much  as  to  spoil  the  little  pleasures  of  the 
present,  or  from  robbing  us  of  our  rest ;  otherwise  the  con- 
sideration of  one  matter  will  interfere  with  every  other,  and  at- 
tention to  some  important  business  may  lead  us  to  negledt 
many  affairs  which  happen  to  be  of  less  moment.  It  is  most 
important  for  anyone  who  is  capable  of  higher  and  nobler 
thoughts  to  keep  his  mind  from  being  so  completely  engrossed 
with  private  affairs  and  vulgar  troubles  as  to  let  them  take  up 
all  his  attention  and  crowd  out  worthier  matter  ;  for  that  is,  in 
a  very  real  sense,  to  lose  sight  of  the  true  end  of  \\i&— propter 
vitam  vivendi  perdere  causas. 


50  COUNSELS    AND   MAXIMS. 

Of  course  for  this — as  for  so  much  else — self-control  is  neces- 
sary ;  without  it,  we  cannot  manage  ourselves  in  the  way  I 
have  described.  And  self-control  may  not  appear  so  very 
difficult,  if  we  consider  that  every  man  has  to  submit  to  a  great 
deal  of  very  severe  control  on  the  part  of  his  surroundings, 
and  that  without  it  no  form  of  existence  is  possible.  Further, 
a  litde  self  control  at  the  right  moment  may  prevent  much 
subsequent  compulsion  at  the  hands  of  others  ;  just  as  a  very 
small  se<ftion  of  a  circle  close  to  the  centre  may  correspond  to 
a  part  near  the  circumference  a  hundred  times  as  large.  Noth- 
ing will  prote<5l  us  from  external  compulsion  so  much  as  the 
control  of  ourselves  ;  and,  as  Seneca  says,  to  submit  yourself 
to  reason  is  the  way  to  make  everything  else  submit  to  you — 
St  iibi  vis  omnia  subjicere,  te  subjice  rationi.  Self-control,  too, 
is  something  which  we  have  in  our  own  power  ;  and  if  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst,  and  it  touches  us  in  a  very  sensitive  part, 
we  can  always  relax  its  severity.  But  other  people  will  pay  no 
regard  to  our  feelings,  if  they  have  to  use  compulsion,  and  we 
shall  be  treated  without  pity  or  mercy.  Therefore  it  will  be 
prudent  to  anticipate  compulsion  by  self-control. 

Section  i6.  We  must  set  limits  to  our  wishes,  curb  our 
desires,  moderate  our  anger,  always  remembering  that  an  in- 
dividual can  attain  only  an  infinitesimal  share  in  anything  that 
is  worth  having  ;  and  that,  on  the  other  hand,  everyone  must 
incur  many  of  the  ills  of  life  ;  in  a  word,  we  must  bear  and  for- 
bear— abstinere  et  sustinere  ;  and  if  we  fail  to  observe  this  rule, 
no  position  of  wealth  or  power  will  prevent  us  from  feeling 
wretched.  This  is  what  Horace  means  when  he  recommends 
us  to  study  carefully  and  inquire  diligently  what  will  best  pro- 
mote a  tranquil  life — not  to  be  always  agitated  by  fruitless 
desires  and  fears  and  hopes  for  things,  which,  after  all;  are  not 
worth  very  much  : — 

Inter  cuncta  leges  et  percontabere  doSlos 
Qua  ratione  queas  traducere  leniter  aevum  ; 
Ne  te  semper  inops  agitet  vexetque  cupido, 
Ne  pavor,  et  rerum  mediocriter  utiliutn  spes.^ 
'  Epist.  I.  xviii.  97. 


OUR    RELATION   TO    OURSELVES.  5I 

Section  17.  Life  consists  in  movement,  says  Aristotle  ; 
and  he  is  obviously  right.  We  exist,  physically,  because  our 
organism  is  the  seat  of  constant  motion  ;  and  if  we  are  to  exist 
intelle6lually,  it  can  only  be  by  means  of  continual  occupation 
— no  matter  with  what  so  long  as  it  is  some  form  of  practical 
or  mental  a6tivity.  You  may  see  that  this  is  so  by  the  way  in 
which  people  who  have  no  work  or  nothing  to  think  about, 
immediately  begin  to  beat  the  devil's  tattoo  with  their  knuckles 
or  a  stick  or  anything  that  comes  handy.  The  truth  is,  that 
our  nature  is  essentially  restless  in  its  chara6ler  :  we  very  soon 
get  tired  of  having  nothing  to  do  ;  it  is  intolerable  boredom. 
This  impulse  to  adlivity  should  be  regulated,  and  some  sort  of 
method  introduced  into  it,  which  of  itself  will  enhance  the  sat- 
isfad^ion  we  obtain.  A6livity  ! — doing  something,  if  possible 
creating  something,  at  any  rate  learning  something — how 
fortunate  it  is  that  men  cannot  exist  without  that  !  A  man 
wants  to  use  his  strength,  to  see,  if  he  can,  what  effedl  it  will 
produce  ;  and  he  will  get  the  most  complete  satisfaction  of  this 
desire  if  he  can  make  or  constru6t  something — be  it  a  book  or 
a  basket.  There  is  a  dire6l  pleasure  in  seeing  work  grow 
under  one's  hands  day  by  day,  until  at  last  it  is  finished.  This 
is  the  pleasure  attaching  to  a  work  of  art  or  a  manuscript,  or 
even  mere  manual  labor  ;  and,  of  course,  the  higher  the  work, 
the  greater  pleasure  it  will  give. 

From  this  point  of  view,  those  are  happiest  of  all  who  are 
conscious  of  the  power  to  produce  great  works  animated  by 
some  significant  purpose  :  it  gives  a  higher  kind  of  interest — a 
sort  of  rare  flavor — to  the  whole  of  their  life,  which,  by  its  ab- 
sence from  the  life  of  the  ordinary  man,  makes  it,  in  compari- 
son, something  very  insipid.  For  richly  endowed  natures,  life 
and  the  world  have  a  special  interest  beyond  the  mere  every 
day  personal  interest  which  so  many  others  share  ;  and  some- 
thing higher  than  that — a  formal  interest.  It  is  from  life  and 
the  world  that  they  get  the  material  for  their  works  ;  and  as 
soon  as  they  are  freed  from  the  pressure  of  personal  needs,  it 
is  to  the  diligent  colle6lion  of  material  that  they  devote  their 


52  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

whole  existence.  So  with  their  intellect :  it  is  to  some  extent 
of  a  twofold  chara6ler,  and  devoted  partly  to  the  ordinary  af- 
fairs of  every  day — those  matters  of  will  which  are  common  to 
them  and  the  rest  of  mankind,  and  partly  to  their  peculiar 
work — the  pure  and  obje6live  contemplation  of  existence.  And 
while,  on  the  stage  of  the  world,  most  men  play  their  little  part 
and  then  pass  away,  the  genius  lives  a  double  life,  at  once  an 
a(Sor  and  a  spectator. 

Let  everyone,  then,  do  something,  according  to  the  measure 
of  his  capacities.  To  have  no  regular  work,  no  set  sphere  of 
a6livity — what  a  miserable  thing  it  is  !  How  often  long  travels 
undertaken  for  pleasure  make  a  man  downright  unhappy  ;  be- 
cause the  absence  of  anything  that  can  be  called  occupation 
forces  him,  as  it  were,  out  of  his  right  element.  Effort,  strug- 
gles with  difficulties  !  that  is  as  natural  to  a  man  as  grubbing 
in  the  ground  is  to  a  mole.  To  have  all  his  wants  satisfied  is 
something  intolerable — the  feeling  of  stagnation  which  comes 
from  pleasures  that  last  too  long.  To  overcome  difficulties  is 
to  experience  the  full  delight  of  existence,  no  matter  where  the 
obstacles  are  encountered  ;  whether  in  the  affairs  of  life,  in 
commerce  or  business  ;  or  in  mental  effort — the  spirit  of  in- 
quiry that  tries  to  master  its  subje<5l.  There  is  always  some- 
thing pleasurable  in  the  struggle  and  the  vi6lory.  And  if  a 
man  has  no  opportunity  to  excite  himself,  he  will  do  what  he 
can  to  create  one,  and  according  to  his  individual  bent,  he  will 
hunt  or  play  Cup  and  Ball  :  or  led  on  by  this  unsuspe6ted  ele- 
ment in  his  nature,  he  will  pick  a  quarrel  with  some  one,  or 
hatch  a  plot  or  intrigue,  or  take  to  swindling  and  rascally 
courses  generally — all  to  put  an  end  to  a  state  of  repose  which 
is  intolerable.  As  I  have  remarked,  difficilis  in  oiio  quies — it 
is  difficult  to  keep  quiet  if  you  have  nothing  to  do. 

Section  i8.  A  man  should  avoid  being  led  on  by  the 
phantoms  of  his  imagination.  This  is  not  the  same  thing  as  to 
submit  to  the  guidance  of  ideas  clearly  thought  out  :  and  yet 
these  are  rules  of  life  which  most  people  pervert.  If  you  ex- 
amine closely  into  the  circumstances  which,  in  any  deliberation, 


OUR   RELATION  TO    OURSELVES.  53 

ultimately  turn  the  scale  in  favor  of  some  particular  course, 
you  will  generally  find  that  the  decision  is  influenced,  not  by 
any  clear  arrangement  of  ideas  leading  to  a  formal  judgment, 
but  by  some  fanciful  pidlure  which  seems  to  stand  for  one  of 
the  alternatives  in  question. 

In  one  of  Voltaire's  or  Diderot's  romances, — I  forget  the 
precise  reference, — the  hero,  standing  like  a  young  Hercules 
at  the  parting  of  ways,   can  see   no  other  representation  of 
Virtue  than  his  old  tutor  holding  a  snuff'-box  in  his  left  hand, 
from   which   he   takes  a   pinch   and   moralizes  ;   whilst   Vice 
appears  in  the  shape  of  his  mother's  chambermaid.     It  is  in 
youth,  more  especially,  that  the  goal  of  our  efforts  comes  to  be 
a  fanciful  pi6lure  of  happiness,  which  continues  to  hover  be- 
fore our  eyes  sometimes  for  half  and  even  for  the  whole  of  our 
life — a  sort  of  mocking  spirit ;  for  when  we  think  our  dream 
is  to  be  realized,  the  pidlure  fades  away,  leaving  us  the  knowl- 
edge that  nothing  of  what  it  promised  is  a6lually  accomplished. 
How  often  this  is  so  with  the  visions  of  domesticity — the  detail- 
ed pi6ture  of  what  our  home  will  be  like  ;  or,  of  life  among 
our  fellow  citizens  and  in  society  ;  or,  again,  of  living  in  the 
country — the  kind  of  house  we  shall  have,  its  surroundings, 
the  marks  of  honor  and  respedl  that  will  be  paid  to  us,  and  so 
on, — whatever  our  hobby  may  be  ;  chaque  fou  a  sa  maroite. 
It  is  often  the  same,  too,  with  our  dreams  about  one  we  love. 
And  this  is  all  quite  natural ;  for  the  visions  we  conjure  up 
affedl  us  dire<5lly,  as  though  they  were  real  objects  ;  and  so 
they  exercise  a  more  immediate  influence  upon  our  will  than 
an  abstract  idea,  which  gives  merely  a  vague,  general  outline, 
devoid  of  details  ;  and  the  details  are  just  the  real  part  of  it. 
We  can  be  only  indire6lly  affe6led  by  an  abstra6t  idea,  and  yet 
it  is  the  abstra6l  idea  alone  which  will  do  as  much  as  it  prom- 
ises ;  and  it  is  the  fun6lion  of  education  to  teach  us  to  put  our 
trust  in  it.     Of  course  the  abstradl  idea  must  be  occasionally 
explained — paraphrased,  as  it  were — by  the  aid  of  pidlures  ; 
\i\xX.(X\'6Q.XQQ.\\y,  cum  grano  salts. 

Section  19.    The  preceding  rule  may  be  taken  as  a  special 
case  of  the  more  general  maxim,  that  a  man  should  never  let 


54  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

himself  be  mastered  by  the  impressions  of  the  moment,  or  in- 
deed by  outward  appearances  at  all,  which  are  incomparably 
more  powerful  in  their  effe<5ls  than  the  mere  play  of  thought  or 
a  train  of  ideas  ;  not  because  these  momentary  impressions  are 
rich  in  virtue  of  the  data  they  supply, — it  is  often  just  the  con- 
trary,— but  because  they  are  something  palpable  to  the  senses 
and  dire6l  in  their  working  ;  they  forcibly  invade  our  mind, 
disturbing  our  repose  and  shattering  our  resolutions. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  that  the  thing  which  lies  before  our 
very  eyes  will  produce  the  whole  of  its  effe6l  at  once,  but  that 
time  and  leisure  are  necessary  for  the  working  of  thought  and 
the  appreciation  of  argument,  as  it  is  impossible  to  think  of 
everything  at  one  and  the  same  moment.  This  is  why  we  are 
so  allured  by  pleasure,  in  spite  of  all  our  determination  to  re- 
sist it  ;  or  so  much  annoyed  by  a  criticism,  even  though  we 
know  that  its  author  is  totally  incompetent  to  judge  ;  or  so  ir- 
ritated by  an  insult,  though  it  comes  from  some  very  con- 
temptible quarter.  In  the  same  way,  to  mention  no  other 
instances,  ten  reasons  for  thinking  that  there  is  no  danger  may 
be  outweighed  by  one  mistaken  notion  that  it  is  a<5lually  at 
hand.  All  this  shows  the  radical  unreason  of  human  nature. 
Women  frequently  succumb  altogether  to  this  predominating 
influence  of  present  impressions,  and  there  arc  few  men  so  over- 
weighted with  reason  as  to  escape  suffering  from  a  similar  cause. 

If  it  is  impossible  to  resist  the  cffe<5ls  of  some  external  influ- 
ence by  the  mere  play  of  thought,  the  best  thing  to  do  is  to 
neutralize  it  by  some  contrary  influence  ;  for  example,  the 
effe6l  of  an  insult  may  be  overcome  by  seeking  the  society  of 
those  who  have  a  good  opinion  of  us  ;  and  the  unpleasant 
sensation  of  imminent  danger  may  be  avoided  by  fixing  our 
attention  on  the  means  of  warding  it  off.  Leibnitz*  tells  of  an 
Italian  who  managed  to  bear  up  under  the  tortures  of  the  rack 
by  never  for  a  moment  ceasing  to  think  of  the  gallows  which 
would  have  awaited  him,  had  he  revealed  his  secret ;  he  kept 
on  crying  out :  I  see  it!  I  see  it ! — afterwards  explaining  that 
this  was  part  of  his  plan. 

^  Nouveaux  Essias.  Liv.  I.  ch.  2.  Sec.  11. 


OUR    RELATION   TO    OURSELVES.  55 

It  is  from  some  such  reason  as  this,  that  we  find  it  so  difficult 
to  stand  alone  in  a  matter  of  opinion, — not  to  be  made  irreso- 
lute by  the  fa6l  that  everyone  else  disagrees  with  us  and  a6ls 
accordingly,  even  though  we  are  quite  sure  that  they  are  in 
the  wrong.  Take  the  case  of  a  fugitive  king  who  is  trying  to 
avoid  capture  ;  how  much  consolation  he  must  find  in  the 
ceremonious  and  submissive  attitude  of  a  faithful  follower, 
exhibited  secretly  so  as  not  to  betray  his  master's  stri<5l 
incognito  ;  it  must  be  almost  necessary  to  prevent  him  doubt- 
ing his  own  existence. 

Section  20.  In  the  first  part  of  this  work  I  have  insisted 
upon  the  great  value  oi  health  as  the  chief  an*^  most  important 
element  in  happiness.  Let  me  emphasize  and  confirm  what  I 
have  there  said  by  giving  a  few  general  rules  as  to  its  preser- 
vation. 

The  way  to  harden  the  body  is  to  impose  a  great  deal  of 
labor  and  effort  upon  it  in  the  days  of  good  health, — to  exercise 
it,  both  as  a  whole  and  in  its  several  parts,  and  to  habituate  it 
to  withstand  all  kinds  of  noxious  influences.  But  on  the  ap- 
pearance of  an  illness  or  disorder,  either  in  the  body  as  a 
whole  or  in  any  of  its  parts,  a  contrary  course  should  be  taken, 
and  every  means  used  to  nurse  the  body,  or  the  part  of  it 
which  is  affedled,  and  to  spare  it  any  effort ;  for  what  is  ailing 
and  debilitated  cannot  be  hardened. 

The  muscles  may  be  strengthened  by  a  vigorous  use  of 
them  ;  but  not  so  the  nerves ;  they  are  weakened  by  it. 
Therefore,  while  exercising  the  muscles  in  every  way  that  is 
suitable,  care  should  be  taken  to  spare  the  nerves  as  much  as 
possible.  The  eyes,  for  instance,  should  be  prote6led  from  too 
strong  a  light, — especially  when  it  is  refle6led  light, — from  any 
straining  of  them  in  the  dark,  or  from  the  long-continued  ex- 
amination of  minute  obje(5ls ;  and  the  ears  from  too  loud 
sounds.  Above  all,  the  brain  should  never  be  forced,  or  used 
too  much,  or  at  the  wrong  time  ;  let  it  have  a  rest  during 
digestion  ;  for  then  the  same  vital  energy  which  forms  thoughts 
in  the  brain  has  a  great  deal  of  work  to  do  elsewhere, — I  mean 
in  the  digestive  organs,  where  it  prepares  chyme  and  chyle. 


56  COUNSELS  AND   MAXIMS. 

For  similar  reasons,  the  brain  should  never  be  used  during,  or 
immediately  after,  violent  muscular  exercise.  For  the  motor 
nerves  are  in  this  respedl  on  a  par  with  the  sensory  nerves  ; 
the  pain  felt  when  a  limb  is  wounded  has  its  seat  in  the  brain  ; 
and,  in  the  same  way,  it  is  not  really  our  legs  and  arms  which 
work  and  move, — it  is  the  brain,  or,  more  stri6lly,  that  part  of 
it  which,  through  the  medium  of  the  spine,  excites  the  nerves 
in  the  limbs  and  sets  them  in  motion.  Accordingly,  when  our 
arms  and  legs  feel  tired,  the  true  seat  of  this  feeling  is  in  the 
brain.  This  is  why  it  is  only  in  connedlion  with  those  muscles 
which  are  set  in  motion  consciously  and  voluntarily, — in  other 
words,  depend  for  their  a6lion  upon  the  brain, — that  any  feel- 
ing of  fatigue  can  arise  ;  this  is  not  the  case  with  those  muscles 
which  work  involuntarily,  like  the  heart.  It  is  obvious,  then, 
that  injury  is  done  to  the  brain  if  violent  muscular  exercise  and 
intelle6lual  exertion  are  forced  upon  it  at  the  same  moment,  or 
at  very  short  intervals. 

What  I  say  stands  in  no  contradiction  with  the  fadl  that  at 
the  beginning  of  a  walk,  or  at  any  period  of  a  short  stroll, 
there  often  comes  a  feeling  of  enhanced  intelle6lual  vigor. 
The  parts  of  the  brain  that  come  into  play  have  had  no  time  to 
become  tired  ;  and  besides,  slight  muscular  exercise  conduces 
to  adlivity  of  the  respiratory  organs,  and  causes  a  purer  and 
more  oxydated  supply  of  arterial  blood  to  mount  to  the  brain. 

It  is  most  important  to  allow  the  brain  the  full  measure  of 
sleep  which  is  necessary  to  restore  it  ;  for  sleep  is  to  a  man's 
whole  nature  what  winding  up  is  to  a  clock.*  This  measure 
will  vary  dire6lly  with  the  development  and  a<5livity  of  the 
brain  ;  to  overstep  the  measure  is  mere  waste  of  time,  because 
if  that  is  done,  sleep  gains  only  so  much  in  length  as  it  loses 
in  depth.* 

•  Q.  Weltals  Wille  und  Vorstellung,  4th  Edition.    Bk.  II.  pp.  236-40. 

«  Cf.  los :  cit:  p.  275.  Sleep  is  a  morsel  of  death  borrowed  to  keep 
up  and  renew  the  part  of  life  which  is  exhausted  by  the  day — le  som- 
meil  est  un  emprunt  fait  d  la  mort.  Or  it  might  be  said  that  sleep  is 
the  interest  we  have  to  pay  on  the  capital  which  is  called  in  at  death  ; 
and  the  higher  the  rate  of  interest  and  the  more  regularly  it  is  paid, 
the  further  the  date  of  redemption  is  postponed. 


OUR    RELATION   TO    OURSELVES.  57 

It  should  be  clearly  understood  that  thought  is  nothing  but 
the  organic  function  of  the  brain  ;  and  it  has  to  obey  the 
same  laws  in  regard  to  exertion  and  repose  as  any  other  or- 
ganic fundlion.  The  brain  can  be  ruined  by  overstrain,  just 
like  the  eyes.  As  the  fun6lion  of  the  stomach  is  to  digest,  so 
it  is  that  of  the  brain  to  think.  The  notion  of  a  soul — as  some- 
thing elementary  and  inmaterial,  merely  lodging  in  the  brain 
and  needing  nothing  at  all  for  the  performance  of  its  essential 
fundlion,  which  consists  in  always  and  unweariedly  thinking — 
has  undoubtedly  driven  many  people  to  foolish  pra6lices,  lead- 
ing to  a  deadening  of  the  intelle(5lual  powers  ;  Frederick  the 
Great,  even,  once  tried  to  form  the  habit  of  doing  without 
sleep  altogether.  It  would  be  well  if  professors  of  philosophy 
refrained  from  giving  currency  to  a  notion  which  is  attended 
by  pra6lical  results  of  a  pernicious  character  ;  but  then  this  is 
just  what  professorial  philosophy  does,  in  its  old-womanish 
endeavor  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  the  catechism.  A  man 
should  accustom  himself  to  view  his  intelledlual  capacities  in 
no  other  light  than  that  of  physiological  functions,  and  to 
manage  them  accordingly — nursing  or  exercising  them  as  the 
case  may  be  ;  remembering  that  every  kind  of  physical  suffer- 
ing, malady  or  disorder,  in  whatever  part  of  the  body  it 
occurs,  has  its  effe61:  upon  the  mind.  The  best  advice  that  I 
know  on  this  subjedl  is  given  by  Cabanis  in  his  Rapports  du 
physique  et  du  moral  de  r  homme} 

Through  negledl  of  this  rule,  many  men  of  genius  and  great 
scholars  have  become  weak-minded  and  childish,  or  even  gone 
quite  mad,  as  they  grew  old.  To  take  no  other  instances, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  celebrated  English  poets  of  the 
early  part  of  this  century,  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Southey,  be- 
came intellectually  dull  and  incapable  towards  the  end  of  their 
days,   nay,   soon  after  passing  their   sixtieth  year  ;  and  that 

'  Translator' s  Note. — The  work  to  which  Schopenhauer  here  refers 
is  a  series  of  essays  by  Cabanis,  a  French  philosopher  ( 1757-1808), 
treating  of  mental  and  moral  phenomena  on  a  physiological  basis. 
In  his  later  days,  Cabanis  completely  abandoned  his  materialistic 
standpoint. 


58  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

their  imbecility  can  be  traced  to  the  fa6l  that,  at  that  period  of 
life,  they  were  all  led  on,  by  the  promise  of  high  pay,  to  treat 
literature  as  a  trade  and  to  write  for  money.  This  seduced 
them  into  an  unnatural  abuse  of  their  intelledlual  powers  ;  and 
a  man  who  puts  his  Pegasus  into  harness,  and  urges  on  his 
Muse  with  the  whip,  will  have  to  pay  a  penalty  similar  to  that 
which  is  exafted  by  the  abuse  of  other  kinds  of  power. 

And  even  in  the  case  of  Kant,  I  suspedl  that  the  second 
childhood  of  his  last  four  years  was  due  to  overwork  in  later 
life,  and  after  he  had  succeeded  in  becoming  a  famous  man. 

Every  month  of  the  year  has  its  own  peculiar  and  dire<5t  in- 
fluence upon  health  and  bodily  condition  generally  ;  nay,  even 
upon  the  state  of  the  mind.  It  is  an  influence  dependent 
upon  the  weather. 


CHAPTER  III. 

OUR    RELATION    TO   OTHERS. — SECTION    21. 

IN  making  his  way  through  life,  a  man  will  find  it  useful  to 
be  ready  and  able  to  do  two  things  :  to  look  ahead  and  to 
overlook  :  the  one  will  proteft  him  from  loss  and  injury,  the 
other  from  disputes  and  squabbles. 

No  one  who  has  to  live  amongst  men  should  absolutely  dis- 
card any  person  who  has  his  due  place  in  the  order  of  nature, 
even  though  he  is  very  wicked  or  contemptible  or  ridiculous. 
He  must  accept  him  as  an  unalterable  fa6l — unalterable,  be- 
cause the  necessary  outcome  of  an  eternal,  fundamental  princi- 
ple ;  and  in  bad  cases  he  should  remember  the  words  of 
Mephistopheles  :  es  muss  auch  solche  K'duze  geben}^ — there 
must  be  fools  and  rogues  in  the  world.  If  he  adts  otherwise, 
he  will  be  committing  an  injustice,  and  giving  a  challenge  of 
life  and  death  to  the  man  he  discards.  No  one  can  alter  his 
own  peculiar  individuality,  his  moral  chara<5ler,  his  intelleAual 
capacity,  his  temperament  or  physique  ;  and  if  we  go  so  far  as 
to  condemn  a  man  from  every  point  of  view,  there  will  be 
nothing  left  him  but  to  engage  us  in  deadly  confli6l  ;  for  we 
are  pradlically  allowing  him  the  right  to  exist  only  on  condi- 
tion that  he  becomes  another  man — which  is  impossible  ;  his 
nature  forbids  it. 

So  if  you  have  to  live  amongst  men,  you  must  allow  every- 
one the  right  to  exist  in  accordance  with  the  character  he  has, 
whatever  it  turns  out  to  be  :  and  all  you  should  strive  to  do  is 
to  make  use  of  this  charadler  in  such  a  way  as  its  kind  and 
nature  permit,  rather  than  to  hope  for  any  alteration  in  it,  or 
to  condemn  it  off-hand  for  what  it  is.     This  is  the  true  sense  of 

•Goethe's  Faust.     Part  I.  (59) 


6o  COUNSELS    AND    MAXIMS. 

the  maxim — Live  and  let  live.  That,  however,  is  a  task  which 
is  difficult  in  proportion  as  it  is  right  ;  and  he  is  a  happy  man 
who  can  once  for  all  avoid  having  to  do  with  a  great  many  of 
his  fellow  creatures. 

The  art  of  putting  up  with  people  may  be  learned  by  prac- 
ticing patience  on  inanimate  obje6ls,  which,  in  virtue  of  some 
mechanical  or  general  physical  necessity,  oppose  a  stubborn 
resistance  to  our  freedom  of  adlion — a  form  of  patience  which 
is  required  every  day.  The  patience  thus  gained  may  be  ap- 
plied to  our  dealings  with  men,  by  accustoming  ourselves  to 
regard  their  opposition,  wherever  we  encounter  it,  as  the  in- 
evitable outcome  of  their  nature,  which  sets  itself  up  against  us 
in  virtue  of  the  same  rigid  law  of  necessity  as  governs  the  re- 
sistance of  inanimate  objefts.  To  become  indignant  at  their 
condu<5l  is  as  foolish  as  to  be  angry  with  a  stone  because  it  rolls 
into  your  path.  And  with  many  people  the  wisest  thing  you 
can  do,  is  to  resolve  to  make  use  of  those  whom  you  cannot 
alter. 

Section  22.  It  is  astonishing  how  easily  and  how  quickly 
similarity,  or  difference  of  mind  and  disposition,  makes  itself 
felt  between  one  man  and  another  as  soon  as  they  begin  to 
talk  :  every  little  trifle  shows  it.  When  two  people  of  totally 
different  natures  are  conversing,  almost  everything  said  by  the 
one  will,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  displease  the  other,  and 
in  many  cases  produce  positive  annoyance  ;  even  though  the 
conversation  turn  upon  the  most  out-of-the-way  subje6t,  or  one 
in  which  neither  of  the  parties  has  any  real  interest.  People 
of  similar  nature,  on  the  other  hand,  immediately  come  to  feel 
a  kind  of  general  agreement  ;  and  if  they  are  cast  very  much 
in  the  same  mould,  complete  harmony  or  even  unison  will  flow 
from  their  intercourse. 

This  explain  two  circumstances.  First  of  all,  it  shows  why 
it  is  that  common,  ordinary  people  are  so  sociable  and  find 
good  company  wherever  they  go.  Ah  !  those  good,  dear, 
brave  people.  It  is  just  the  contrary  with  those  who  are  not 
of  the  common  run  ;  and  the  less  they  are  so,  the  more  unso- 
ciable they  become  ;  so  that  if,  in  their  isolation,  they  chance 


OUR   RELATION  TO    OTHERS.  6l 

to  come  across  some  one  in  whose  nature  they  can  find  even  a 
single  sympathetic  chord,  be  it  never  so  minute,  they  show 
extraordinary  pleasure  in  his  society.  For  one  man  can  be  to 
another  only  so  much  as  the  other  is  to  him.  Great  minds 
are  like  eagles,  and  build  their  nest  in  some  lofty  solitude. 

Secondly,  we  are  enabled  to  understand  how  it  is  that 
people  of  like  disposition  so  quickly  get  on  with  one  another, 
as  though  they  were  drawn  together  by  magnetic  force — kin- 
dred souls  greeting  each  other  from  afar.  Of  course  the  most 
frequent  opportunity  of  observing  this  is  afforded  by  people  of 
vulgar  tastes  and  inferior  intelle6l,  but  only  because  their 
name  is  legion  ;  while  those  who  are  better  off  in  this  respe<5l 
and  of  a  rarer  nature,  are  not  often  to  be  met  with  :  they  are 
called  rare  because  you  can  seldom  find  them. 

Take  the  case  of  a  large  number  of  people  who  have  formed 
themselves  into  a  league  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  out  some 
pra6lical  objedl ;  if  there  be  two  rascals  among  them,  they  will 
recognize  each  other  as  readily  as  if  they  bore  a  similar  badge, 
and  will  at  once  conspire  for  some  misfeasance  or  treachery. 
In  the  same  way,  if  you  can  imagine — -per  impossible — a  large 
company  of  very  intelligent  and  clever  people,  amongst  whom 
there  are  only  two  blockheads,  these  two  will  be  sure  to  be 
drawn  together  by  a  feeling  of  sympathy,  and  each  of  them 
will  very  soon  secretly  rejoice  at  having  found  at  least  one  in- 
telligent person  in  the  whole  company.  It  is  really  quite 
curious  to  see  how  two  such  men,  especially  if  they  are  moral- 
ly and  intelle6lually  of  an  inferior  type,  will  recognize  each 
other  at  first  sight ;  with  what  zeal  they  will  strive  to  become 
intimate  ;  how  affably  and  cheerily  they  will  run  to  greet  each 
other,  just  as  though  they  were  old  friends  ; — it  is  all  so  striking 
that  one  is  tempted  to  embrace  the  Buddhist  doctrine  of  me- 
tempsychosis and  presume  that  they  were  on  familiar  terms  in 
some  former  state  of  existence. 

Still,  in  spite  of  all  this  general  agreement,  men  are  kept 
apart  who  might  come  together  ;  or,  in  some  cases,  a  passing 
discord  springs  up  between  them.  This  is  due  to  diversity  of 
mood.     You  will  hardly  ever  see  two  people  exa(5lly  in  the 


62  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

same  frame  of  mind  ;  for  that  is  something  which  varies  with 
their  condition  of  life,  occupation,  surroundings,  health,  the 
train  of  thought  they  are  in  at  the  moment,  and  so  on.     These 
differences  give  rise  to  discord  between  persons  of  the  most 
harmonious  disposition.     To  correal  the  balance  properly,  so 
as  to  remove  the  disturbance — to  introduce,  as  it  were,  a  uni- 
form temperature, — is  a  work  demanding  a  rery  high  degree 
of  culture.     The  extent  to  which  uniformity  of  mood  is  pro- 
ductive of  good  fellowship  may  be  measured  by  its  effe6ls  up- 
on a  large  company.     When,    for    instance,    a   great   many 
people  are  gathered  together  and  presented  with  some  object- 
ive interest  which  works  upon  all  alike  and  influences  them  in 
a  similar  way,   no  matter  what  it  be — a  common  danger  or 
hope,  some  great  news,  a  spectacle,  a  play,  a  piece  of  music, 
or  anything  of  that  kind — you  will  find  them  roused  to  a  mutu- 
al expression  of  thought,  and  a  display  of  sincere  interest. 
There  will  be  a  general  feeling  of  pleasure  amongst  them  ;  for 
that  which  attra(5ls  their  attention  produces  a  unity  of  mood  by 
overpowering  all  private  and  personal  interests. 

And  in  default  of  some  objeftive  interest  of  the  kind  I  have 
mentioned,  recourse  is  usually  had  to  something  subje6live. 
A  bottle  of  wine  is  not  an  uncommon  means  of  introducing  a 
mutual  feeling  of  fellowship  ;  and  even  tea  and  coffee  are  used 
for  a  like  end. 

The  discord  which  so  easily  finds  its  way  into  all  society  as 
an  effe6l  of  the  different  moods  in  which  people  happen  to  be 
for  the  moment,  also  in  part  explains  why  it  is  that  memory 
always  idealizes,  and  sometimes  almost  transfigures,  the  atti- 
tude we  have  taken  up  at  any  period  of  the  past — a  change  due 
to  our  inability  to  remember  all  the  fleeting  influences  which 
disturbed  us  on  any  given  occasion.  Memory  is  in  this  re- 
spe6l  like  the  lens  of  a  camera  obscura  :  it  contra6ts  everything 
within  its  range,  and  so  produces  a  much  finer  pidlure  than  the 
actual  landscape  affords.  And,  in  the  case  of  a  man,  absence 
always  goes  some  way  towards  securing  this  advantageous 
light  ;  for  though  the  idealizing  tendency  of  the  memory  re- 
quires time  to  complete  its  work,  it  begins  it  at  once.     Hence 


OUR  RELATION  TO  OTHERS.  63 

it  is  a  prudent  thing  to  see  your  friends  and  acquaintances  only 
at  considerable  intervals  of  time  ;  and  on  meeting  them  again, 
you  will  observe  that  memory  has  been  at  work. 

Section  23.  No  man  can  see  over  his  own  height.  Let  me 
explain  what  I  mean. 

You  cannot  see  in  another  man  any  more  than  you  have  in 
yourself;  and  your  own  intelligence  stri<5lly  determines  the 
€xtent  to  which  he  comes  within  its  grasp.  If  your  intelligence 
is  of  a  very  low  order,  mental  qualities  in  another,  even  though 
they  be  of  the  highest  kind,  will  have  no  effe(5l  at  all  upon  you  ; 
you  will  see  nothing  in  their  possessor  except  the  meanest  side 
of  his  individuality — in  other  words,  just  those  parts  of  his 
chara6ler  and  disposition  which  are  weak  and  defe6live.  Your 
whole  estimate  of  the  man  will  be  confined  to  his  defefts,  and 
his  higher  mental  qualities  will  no  more  exist  for  you  than 
colors  exist  for  those  who  cannot  see. 

Intelle6l  is  invisible  to  the  man  who  has  none.  In  any  at- 
tempt to  criticise  another's  work,  the  range  of  knowledge  pos- 
sessed by  the  critic  is  as  essential  a  part  of  his  verdi6t  as  the 
claims  of  the  work  itself 

Hence  intercourse  with  others  involves  a  process  of  leveling 
down.  The  qualities  which  are  present  in  one  man,  and  ab- 
sent in  another,  cannot  come  into  play  when  they  meet  ;  and 
the  self-sacrifice  which  this  entails  upon  one  of  the  parties,  calls 
forth  no  recognition  from  the  other. 

Consider  how  sordid,  how  stupid,  in  a  word,  how  vulgar 
most  men  are,  and  you  will  see  that  it  is  impossible  to  talk  to 
them  without  becoming  vulgar  yourself  for  the  time  being. 
Vulgarity  is  in  this  respe6l  like  ele6lricity  ;  it  is  easily  distribu- 
ted. You  will  then  fully  appreciate  the  truth  and  propriety  of 
the  expression,  to  make  yourself  cheap ;  and  you  will  be  glad 
to  avoid  the  society  of  people  whose  only  possible  point  of  con - 
tadl  with  you  is  just  that  part  of  your  nature  of  which  you  have 
least  reason  to  be  proud.  So  you  will  see  that,  in  dealing  with 
fools  and  blockheads,  there  is  only  one  way  of  showing  your 
intelligence — by  having  nothing  to  do  with  them.  That  means, 
of  course,  that  when  you  go  into  society,  you  may  now  and 


64.  COUNSELS   AND    MAXIMS. 

then  feel  like  a  good  dancer  who  gets  an  invitation  to  a  ball, 
and  on  arriving,  finds  that  everyone  is  lame  : — with  whom  is 
he  to  dance  ? 

Section  24.  I  feel  respe6l  for  the  man — and  he  is  one  in  a 
hundred — who,  when  he  is  waiting  or  sitting  unoccupied,  re- 
frains from  rattling  or  beating  time  with  anything  that  happens 
to  be  handy, — his  stick,  or  knife  and  fork,  or  whatever  else  it 
may  be.     The  probability  is  that  he  is  thinking  of  something. 

With  a  large  number  of  people,  it  is  quite  evident  that  their 
power  of  sight  completely  dominates  over  their  power  of 
thought ;  they  seem  to  be  conscious  of  existence  only  when 
they  are  making  a  noise  ;  unless  indeed  they  happen  to  be 
smoking,  for  this  serves  a  similar  end.  It  is  for  the  same 
reason  that  they  never  fail  to  be  all  eyes  and  ears  for  what  is 
going  on  around  them. 

Section  25.  La  Rochefoucauld  makes  the  striking  remark 
that  it  is  difficult  to  feel  deep  veneration  and  great  affe6lion  for 
one  and  the  same  person.  If  this  is  so,  we  shall  have  to  choose 
whether  it  is  veneration  or  love  that  we  want  from  our  fellow- 
men. 

Their  love  is  always  selfish,  though  in  very  different  ways  ; 
and  the  means  used  to  gain  it  are  not  always  of  a  kind  to  make 
us  proud.  A  man  is  loved  by  others  mainly  in  the  degree  in 
which  he  moderates  his  claim  on  their  good  feeling  and  intelli- 
gence :  but  he  must  a6t  genuinely  in  the  matter  and  without 
dissimulation — not  merely  out  of  forbearance,  which  is  at 
bottom  a  kind  of  contempt.  This  calls  to  mind  a  very  true 
observation  of  Helvetius'  :  the  amount  of  intellect  necessary  to 
please  us,  is  a  most  accurate  m£asure  of  the  amount  of  intellect 
we  have  ourselves.  With  these  remarks  as  premises,  it  is  easy 
to  draw  the  conclusion. 

Now  with  veneration  the  case  is  just  the  opposite  ;  it  is 
wrung  from  men  relu6lantly,  and  for  that  very  reason  mosdy 
concealed.     Hence,  as  compared  with  love,  veneration  gives 

'  Translator's  Note. — Helvetius,  Claude-Adrien  (1715-71),  a  French 
philosophical  writer  much  esteemed  by  Schopenhauer.  His  chief 
work,  De  I  Esprit,  excited  great  interest  and  opposition  at  the  time  of 
its  publication,  on  account  of  the  author's  pronounced  materialism. 


OUR    RELATION   TO    OTHERS.  65 

more  real  satisfa6lion  ;  for  it  is  connected  with  personal  value, 
and  the  same  is  not  dire6lly  true  of  love,  which  is  subje<5live  in 
its  nature,  whilst  veneration  is  obje6live.  To  be  sure,  it  is 
more  useful  to  be  loved  than  to  be  venerated. 

Section  26.  Most  men  are  so  thoroughly  subje6live  that 
nothing  really  interests  them  but  themselves.  They  always 
think  of  their  own  case  as  soon  as  ever  any  remark  is  made, 
and  their  whole  attention  is  engrossed  and  absorbed  by  the 
merest  chance  reference  to  anything  which  affe6ls  them  person- 
ally, be  it  never  so  remote  :  with  the  result  that  they  have  no 
power  left  for  forming  an  objective  view  of  things,  should  the 
conversation  take  that  turn  ;  neither  can  they  admit  any  valid- 
ity in  arguments  which  tell  against  their  interest  or  their  vanity. 
Hence  their  attention  is  easily  distracted.  They  are  so  readi- 
ly offended,  insulted  or  annoyed,  that  in  discussing  any  im- 
personal matter  with  them,  no  care  is  too  great  to  avoid  letting 
your  remarks  bear  the  slightest  possible  reference  to  the  very 
worthy  and  sensitive  individuals  whom  you  have  before  you  ; 
for  anything  you  may  say  will  perhaps  hurt  their  feelings. 
People  really  care  about  nothing  that  does  not  affe6t  them 
personally.  True  and  striking  observations,  fine,  subtle  and 
witty  things  are  lost  upon  them  :  they  cannot  understand  or 
feel  them.  But  anything  that  disturbs  their  petty  vanity  in 
the  most  remote  and  indire6l  way,  or  refle(fts  prejudicially  up- 
on their  exceedingly  precious  selves — to  that,  they  are  most 
tenderly  sensitive.  In  this  respe<5l  they  are  like  the  little  dog 
whose  toes  you  are  so  apt  to  tread  upon  inadvertently — you 
know  it  by  the  shrill  bark  it  sets  up  :  or,  again,  they  resemble 
a  sick  man  covered  with  sores  and  boils,  with  whom  the  great- 
est care  must  be  taken  to  avoid  unnecessary  handling.  And 
in  some  people  this  feeling  reaches  such  a  pass  that,  if  they  are 
talking  with  anyone,  and  he  exhibits,  or  does  not  sufficiently 
conceal,  his  intelligence  and  discernment,  they  look  upon  it  as 
a  downright  insult ;  although  for  the  moment  they  hide  their 
ill-will,  and  the  unsuspe6ling  author  of  it  afterwards  ruminates  in 
vain  upon  their  conduct,  and  racks  his  brains  to  discover  what 
he  could  possibly  have  done  to  excite  their  malice  and  hatred. 


66  COUNSELS  AND    MAXIMS. 

But  it  is  just  as  easy  to  flatter  and  win  them  over  ;  and  this  is 
why  their  judgment  is  usually  corrupt,  and  why  their  opinions 
are  swayed,  not  by  what  is  really  true  and  right,  but  by  the  favor 
of  the  party  or  class  to  which  they  belong.  And  the  ultimate 
reason  of  it  all  is,  that  in  such  people  force  of  will  greatly  pre- 
dominates over  knowledge  ;  and  hence  their  meagre  intelleft 
is  wholly  given  up  to  the  service  of  the  will,  and  can  never  free 
itself  from  that  service  for  a  moment. 

Astrology  furnishes  a  magnificent  proof  of  this  miserable 
subjedlive  tendency  in  men,  which  leads  them  to  see  everything 
only  as  bearing  upon  themselves,  and  to  think  of  nothing  that 
is  not  straightway  made  into  a  personal  matter.  The  aim  of 
astrology  is  to  bring  the  motions  of  the  celestial  bodies  into  re- 
lation with  the  wretched  Ego,  and  to  establish  a  conne6Uon 
between  a  comet  in  the  sky  and  squabbles  and  rascalities  on 
earth .  * 

Section  27.  When  any  wrong  statement  is  made,  whether 
in  public,  or  in  society,  or  in  books,  and  well  received — or,  at 
any  rate,  not  refuted — that  is  no  reason  why  you  should  de- 
spair or  think  that  there  the  matter  will  rest.  You  should 
comfort  yourself  with  the  reflexion  that  the  question  will  be 
afterwards  gradually  subje6led  to  examination  ;  light  will  be 
thrown  upon  it ;  it  will  be  thought  over,  considered,  discussed, 
and  generally  in  the  end  the  corredl  view  will  be  reached  ;  so 
that,  after  a  time — the  length  of  which  will  depend  upon  the 
difficulty  of  the  subject — everyone  will  come  to  understand  that 
which  a  clear  head  saw  at  once. 

In  the  meantime,  of  course,  you  must  have  patience.  He 
who  can  see  truly  in  the  midst  of  general  infatuation  is  like  a 
man  whose  watch  keeps  good  time,  when  all  clocks  in  the  town 
in  which  he  lives  are  wrong.  He  alone  knows  the  right  time  ; 
but  what  use  is  that  to  him  ?  for  everyone  goes  by  the  clocks 
which  speak  false,  not  even  excepting  those  who  know  that  his 
watch  is  the  only  one  that  is  right. 

Section  28.  Men  are  like  children,  in  that,  if  you  spoil 
them,  they  become  naughty. 

'  See,  for  instance.  Stobaeus,  Eclog.  I.  xxii.  9. 


OUR    RELATION    TO   OTHERS.  67 

Therefore  it  is  well  not  to  be  too  indulgent  or  charitable  with 
anyone.  You  may  take  it  as  a  general  rule  that  you  will  not 
lose  a  friend  by  refusing  him  a  loan,  but  that  you  are  very 
likely  to  do  so  by  granting  it  ;  and.  for  similar  reasons,  you 
will  not  readily  alienate  people  by  being  somewhat  proud  and 
careless  in  your  behavior  ;  but  if  you  are  very  kind  and  com- 
plaisant towards  them,  you  will  often  make  them  arrogant  and 
intolerable,  and  so  a  breach  will  ensue. 

There  is  one  thing  that,  more  than  any  other,  throws  people 
absolutely  off  their  balance — the  thought  that  you  are  depend- 
ent upon  them.  This  is  sure  to  produce  an  insolent  and 
domineering  manner  towards  you.  There  are  some  people, 
indeed,  who  become  rude  if  you  enter  into  any  kind  of  relation 
with  them  ;  for  instance,  if  you  have  occasion  to  converse  with 
them  frequently  upon  confidential  matters,  they  soon  come  to 
fancy  that  they  can  take  liberties  with  you,  and  so  they  try  and 
transgress  the  laws  of  politeness.  This  is  why  there  are  so  few 
with  whom  you  care  to  become  more  intimate,  and  why  you 
should  avoid  familiarity  with  vulgar  people.  If  a  man  comes 
to  think  that  I  am  more  dependent  upon  him  than  he  is  upon 
me,  he  at  once  feels  as  though  I  had  stolen  something  from 
him  ;  and  his  endeavor  will  be  to  have  his  vengeance  and  get 
it  back.  The  only  way  to  attain  superiority  in  dealing  with 
men,  is  to  let  it  be  seen  that  you  are  independent  of  them. 

And  in  this  view  it  is  advisable  to  let  everyone  of  your 
acquaintance — whether  man  or  woman — feel  now  and  then  that 
you  could  very  well  dispense  with  their  company.  This  will 
consolidate  friendship.  Nay,  with  most  people  there  will  be 
no  harm  in  occasionally  mixing  a  grain  of  disdain  with  your 
treatment  of  them  ;  that  will  make  them  value  your  friendship 
all  the  more.  Chi  non  istima  vien  stimato,  as  a  subtle  Italian 
proverb  has  it — to  disregard  is  to  win  regard.  But  if  we  really 
think  very  highly  of  a  person,  we  should  conceal  it  from  him 
like  a  crime.  This  is  not  a  very  gratifying  thing  to  do,  but  it 
is  right.  Why,  a  dog  will  not  bear  being  treated  too  kindly, 
let  alone  a  man  ! 

Section  29.    It  is  often  the  case  that  people  of  noble  char- 


68  COUNSELS    AND    MAXIMS. 

a6ler  and  great  mental  gifts  betray  a  strange  lack  of  worldly- 
wisdom  and  a  deficiency  in  the  knowledge  of  men,  more 
especially  when  they  are  young  ;  with  the  result  that  it  is  easy 
to  deceive  or  mislead  them  ;  and  that,  on  the  other  hand, 
natures  of  the  commoner  sort  are  more  ready  and  successful  in 
making  their  way  in  the  world. 

The  reason  of  this  is  that,  when  a  man  has  little  or  no  ex- 
perience, he  must  judge  by  his  own  antecedent  notions  ;  and 
in  matters  demanding  judgment,  an  antecedent  notion  is  never 
on  the  same  level  as  experience.  For,  with  the  commoner 
sort  of  people,  an  antecedent  notion  means  just  their  own  self- 
ish point  of  view.  This  is  not  the  case  with  those  whose  mind 
and  charadler  are  above  the  ordinary  ;  for  it  is  precisely  in 
this  respedl — their  unselfishness — that  they  differ  from  the  rest 
of  mankind  ;  and  as  they  judge  other  people's  thoughts  and 
adlions  by  their  own  high  standard,  the  result  does  not  always 
tally  with  their  calculation. 

But  if,  in  the  end,  a  man  of  noble  character  comes  to  see,  as 
the  effecl  of  his  own  experience,  or  by  the  lessons  he  learns 
from  others,  what  it  is  that  may  be  expe<Sed  of  men  in  general, 
— namely,  that  five-sixths  of  them  are  morally  and  intelledlual- 
ly  so  constituted  that,  if  circumstances  do  not  place  you  in 
relation  with  them,  you  had  better  get  out  of  their  way  and 
keep  as  far  as  possible  from  having  anything  to  do  with  them, 
— still,  he  will  scarcely  ever  attain  an  adequate  notion  of  their 
wretchedly  mean  and  shabby  nature  :  all  his  life  long  he  will 
have  to  be  extending  and  adding  to  the  inferior  estimate  he 
forms  of  them  ;  and  in  the  meantime  he  will  commit  a  great 
many  mistakes  and  do  himself  harm. 

Then  again,  after  he  has  really  taken  to  heart  the  lessons 
that  have  been  taught  him,  it  will  occasionally  happen  that, 
when  he  is  in  the  society  of  people  whom  he  does  not  know, 
he  will  be  surprised  to  find  how  thoroughly  reasonable  they  all 
appear  to  be,  both  in  their  conversation  and  in  their  demeanor 
— in  fadl,  quite  honest,  sincere,  virtuous  and  trustworthy 
people,  and  at  the  same  time  shrewd  and  clever. 

But  that  ought  not  to  perplex  him.     Nature  js  not  like  those 


OUR    RELATION   TO    OTHERS.  69 

bad  poets,  who,  in  setting  a  fool  or  a  knave  before  us,  do  their 
work  so  clumsily,  and  with  such  evident  design,  that  you 
might  almost  fancy  you  saw  the  poet  standing  behind  each  of 
his  chara6lers,  and  continually  disavowing  their  sentiments,  and 
telling  you  in  a  tone  of  warning  :  This  is  a  knave ;  that  is  a 
fool ;  do  not  mind  what  he  says.  But  Nature  goes  to  work  like 
Shakespeare  and  Goethe,  poets  who  make  everyone  of  their 
chara6lers — even  if  it  is  the  devil  himself  ! — appear  to  be  quite 
in  the  right  for  the  moment  that  they  come  before  us  in  their 
several  parts  ;  the  chara6lers  are  described  so  obje(5lively  that 
they  excite  our  interest  and  compel  us  to  sympathize  with  their 
point  of  view  ;  for,  like  the  works  of  Nature,  everyone  of 
these  charadters  is  evolved  as  the  result  of  some  hidden  law  or 
principle,  which  makes  all  they  say  and  do  appear  natural  and 
therefore  necessary.  And  you  will  always  be  the  prey  or  the 
plaything  of  the  devils  and  fools  in  this  world,  if  you  expe6l  to 
see  them  going  about  with  horns  or  jangling  their  bells. 

And  it  should  be  borne  in  mind  that,  in  their  intercourse 
with  others,  people  are  like  the  moon,  or  like  hunchbacks  ; 
they  show  you  only  one  of  their  sides.  Every  man  has  an  in- 
nate talent  for  mimicry, — for  making  a  mask  out  of  his  physi- 
ognomy, so  that  he  can  always  look  as  if  he  really  were  what 
he  pretends  to  be  ;  and  since  he  makes  his  calculations  always 
within  the  lines  of  his  individual  nature,  the  appearance  he 
puts  on  suits  him  to  a  nicety,  and  its  effect  is  extremely  de- 
ceptive. He  dons  his  mask  whenever  his  obje6l  is  to  flatter 
himself  into  some  one's  good  opinion  ;  and  you  may  pay  just 
as  much  attention  to  it  as  if  it  were  made  of  wax  or  cardboard, 
never  forgetting  that  excellent  Italian  proverb  :  7ion  e  si  tristo 
cane  che  non  meni la  coda, — there  is  no  dog  so  bad  but  that  he 
will  wag  his  tail. 

In  any  case  it  is  well  to  take  care  not  to  form  a  highly  favorable 
opinion  of  a  person  whose  acquaintance  you  have  only  recently 
made,  for  otherwise  you  are  very  likely  to  be  disappointed  ; 
and  then  you  will  be  ashamed  of  yourself  and  perhaps  even 
suffer  some  injury.  And  while  I  am  on  the  subject,  there  is 
another  fa<5l  that  deserves  mention.     It  is  this.     A  man  shows 


70  COUNSELS    AND   MAXIMS. 

his  chara<5ler  just  in  the  way  in  which  he  deals  with  trifles, — 
for  then  he  is  off  his  guard.  This  will  often  afford  a  good 
opportunity  of  observing  the  boundless  egoism  of  man's 
nature,  and  his  total  lack  of  consideration  for  others  ;  and  if 
these  defedls  show  themselves  in  small  things,  or  merely  in  his 
general  demeanor,  you  will  find  that  they  also  underlie  his 
a<5lion  in  matters  of  importance,  although  he  may  disguise  the 
fa<5l.  This  is  an  opportunity  which  should  not  be  missed.  If 
in  the  little  affairs  of  every  day, — the  trifles  of  life,  those 
matters  to  which  the  rule  de  minimis  n<m  applies, — a  man  is 
inconsiderate  and  seeks  only  what  is  advantageous  or  con- 
venient to  himself,  to  the  prejudice  of  others'  rights  ;  if  he  ap- 
propriates to  himself  that  which  belongs  to  all  alike,  you  may 
be  sure  there  is  no  justice  in  his  heart,  and  that  he  would  be  a 
scoundrel  on  a  wholesale  scale,  only  that  law  and  compulsion 
bind  his  hands.  Do  not  trust  him  beyond  your  door.  He 
who  is  not  afraid  to  break  the  laws  of  his  own  private  circle, 
will  break  those  of  the  State  when  he  can  do  so  with  impunity. 

If  the  average  man  were  so  constituted  that  the  good  in  him 
outweighed  the  bad,  it  would  be  more  advisable  to  rely  upon 
his  sense  of  justice,  fairness,  gratitude,  fidelity,  love  or  com- 
passion, than  to  work  upon  his  fears  ;  but  as  the  contrary  is  the 
case,  and  it  is  the  bad  that  outweighs  the  good,  the  opposite 
course  is  the  more  prudent  one. 

If  any  person  with  whom  we  are  associated  or  have  to  do, 
exhibits  unpleasant  or  annoying  qualities,  we  have  only  to  ask 
ourselves  whether  or  not  this  person  is  of  so  much  value  to  us 
that  we  can  put  up  with  frequent  and  repeated  exhibitions  of  the 
same  qualities  in  a  somewhat  aggravated  form.*  In  case  of  an 
affimative  answer  to  this  question,  there  will  not  be  much  to 
be  said,  because  talking  is  very  little  use.  We  must  let  the 
matter  pass,  with  or  without  some  notice  ;  but  we  should  never- 
theless remember  that  we  are  thereby  exposing  ourselves  to  a 
repetition  of  the  offence.  If  the  answer  is  in  the  negative,  we 
must  break  with  our  worthy  friend  at  once  and  forever  ;  or  in 

•  To  forgive  and  forget  means    to  throw  away  dearly  bought 
experience. 


OUR   RELATION   TO    OTHERS.  71 

the  case  of  a  sen'ant,  dismiss  him.  For  he  will  inevitably  re- 
peat the  offence,  or  do  something  tantamount  to  it,  should  the 
occasion  return,  even  though  for  the  moment  he  is  deep  and 
sincere  in  his  assurances  ot  the  contrary.  There  is  nothing, 
absolutely  nothing,  that  a  man  cannot  forget, — but  not  himself, 
his  own  character.  For  charader  is  incorrigible  ;  because  all 
a  man's  a6lions  emanate  from  an  inward  principle,  in  virtue  of 
which  he  must  always  do  the  same  thing  under  like  circum- 
stances ;  and  he  cannot  do  otherwise.  Let  me  refer  to  my 
prize  essay  on  the  so-called  Freedom  of  the  Will,  the  perusal 
of  which  will  dissipate  any  delusions  the  reader  may  have  on 
this  subjed. 

To  become  reconciled  to  a  friend  with  whom  you  have 
broken,  is  a  form  of  weakness  ;  and  you  pay  the  penalty  of  it 
when  he  takes  the  first  opportunity  of  doing  precisely  the  very 
thing  which  brought  about  the  breach  ;  nay,  he  does  it  the 
more  boldly,  because  he  is  secretly  conscious  that  you  cannot 
get  on  without  him.  This  is  also  applicable  to  servants  whom 
you  have  dismissed,  and  then  taken  into  your  service  again. 

For  the  same  reason,  you  should  just  as  little  expedl  people 
to  continue  to  a6l  in  a  similar  way  under  altered  circumstances. 
The  truth  is  that  men  alter  their  demeanor  and  sentiments  just 
as  fast  as  their  interest  changes  ;  and  their  design  in  this  re- 
spe6l  is  a  bill  drawn  for  such  short  payment  that  the  man  must 
be  still  more  short-sighted  who  accepts  the  bill  without  pro- 
testing it.  Accordingly,  suppose  you  want  to  know  how  a 
man  will  behave  in  an  office  into  which  you  think  of  putting 
him  ;  you  should  not  build  upon  expedlations,  on  his  promises 
or  assurances.  For,  even  allowing  that  he  is  quite  sincere,  he 
is  speaking  about  a  matter  of  which  he  has  no  knowledge. 
The  only  way  to  calculate  how  he  will  behave,  is  to  consider 
the  circumstances  in  which  he  will  be  placed,  and  the  extent  to 
which  they  will  confli<5l  with  his  chara<5ler. 

If  you  wish  to  get  a  clear  and  profound  insight — and  it  is 
very  needful — into  the  true  but  melancholy  elements  of  which 
most  men  are  made,  you  will  find  it  a  very  instructive  thing  to 
take  the  way  they  behave  in  the  pages  of  literature  as  a  com- 


72  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

mentary  to  their  doings  in  pra6lical  life,  and  vice  versa.  The 
experience  thus  gained  will  be  very  useful  in  avoiding  wrong 
ideas,  whether  about  yourself  or  about  others.  But  if  you 
come  across  any  special  trait  of  meanness  or  stupidity — in  life 
or  in  literature, — you  must  be  careful  not  to  let  it  annoy  or 
distress  you,  but  to  look  upon  it  merely  as  an  addition  to  your 
knowledge — a  new  fa6t  to  be  considered  in  studying  the  charac- 
ter of  humanity.  Your  attitude  towards  it  will  be  that  of  the 
mineralogist  who  stumbles  upon  a  very  chara6leristic  specimen 
of  a  mineral. 

Of  course  there  are  some  fadls  which  are  very  exceptional, 
and  it  is  difficult  to  understand  how  they  arise,  and  how  it  is 
that  there  come  to  be  such  enormous  differences  between  man 
and  man  ;  but,  in  general,  what  was  said  long  ago  is  quite  true, 
and  the  world  is  in  a  very  bad  way.  In  savage  countries  they 
eat  one  another,  in  civilized  countries  they  deceive  one  an- 
other ;  and  that  is  what  people  call  the  way  of  the  world  ! 
What  are  States  and  all  the  elaborate  systems  of  political  ma- 
chinery, and  the  rule  offeree,  whether  in  home  or  in  foreign 
affairs, — what  are  they  but  barriers  against  the  boundless  in- 
iquity of  mankind  ?  Does  not  all  history  show  that  whenever 
a  king  is  firmly  planted  on  a  throne,  and  his  people  reach 
some  degree  of  prosperity,  he  uses  it  to  lead  his  army,  like  a 
band  of  robbers,  against  adjoining  countries  ?  Are  not  almost 
all  wars  ultimately  undertaken  for  purposes  of  plunder  ?  In 
the  most  remote  antiquity,  and  to  some  extent  also  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  the  conquered  became  slaves, — in  other  words, 
they  had  to  work  for  those  who  conquered  them  ;  and  where 
is  the  difference  between  that  and  paying  war-taxes,  which 
represent  the  produd  of  our  previous  work  ? 

All  war,  says  Voltaire,  is  a  mattter  of  robbery ;  and  the 
Germans  should  take  that  as  a  warning.  j 

Section  30.  No  man  is  so  formed  that  he  can  be  left  en- 
tirely to  himself,  to  go  his  own  ways  ;  everyone  needs  to  be 
guided  by  a  preconceived  plan,  and  to  follow  certain  general 
rules.  But  if  this  is  carried  too  far,  and  a  man  tries  to  take  on 
a  character  which  is  not  natural  or  innate  in  him,  but  is  arti- 


OUR   RELATION    TO   OTHERS.  73 

ficially  acquired  and  evolved  merely  by  a  process  of  reasoning, 
he  will  very  soon  discover  that  Nature  cannot  be  forced,  and 
that  if  you  drive  it  out,  it  will  return  despite  your  efforts  : — 

Naturatn  expelles  furca,  tatnen  usque  recurret. 

To  understand  a  rule  governing  condu6l  towards  others, 
even  to  discover  it  for  oneself  and  to  express  it  neatly,  is  easy 
enough  ;  and  still,  very  soon  afterwards,  the  rule  may  be 
broken  in  pra6lice.  But  that  is  no  reason  for  despair  ;  and 
you  need  not  fancy  that  as  it  is  impossible  to  regulate  your  life 
in  accordance  with  abstraft  ideas  and  maxims,  it  is  better  to 
live  just  as  you  please.  Here,  as  in  all  theoretical  instruction 
that  aims  at  a  pra6lical  result,  the  first  thing  to  do  is  to  under- 
stand the  rule  ;  the  second  thing  is  to  learn  the  pra6lice  of  it. 
The  theory  may  be  understood  at  once  by  an  effort  of  reason, 
and  yet  the  pra<5lice  of  it  acquired  only  in  course  of  time. 

A  pupil  may  learn  the  various  notes  on  an  instrument  of 
music,  or  the  different  positions  in  fencing  ;  and  when  he 
makes  a  mistake,  as  he  is  sure  to  do,  however  hard  he  tries, 
he  is  apt  to  think  it  will  be  impossible  to  observe  the  rules, 
when  he  is  set  to  read  music  at  sight  or  challenged  to  a  furious 
duel.  But  for  all  that,  gradual  pra6lice  makes  him  perfe6l, 
through  a  long  series  of  slips,  blunders  and  fresh  efforts.  It 
is  just  the  same  in  other  things  ;  in  learning  to  write  and  speak 
Latin,  a  man  will  forget  the  grammatical  rules  ;  it  is  only  by  long 
praAice  that  a  blockhead  turns  into  a  courtier,  that  a  passion- 
ate man  becomes  shrewd  and  worldly-wise,  or  a  frank  person 
reserved,  or  a  noble  person  ironical.  But  though  self-disci- 
pline of  this  kind  is  the  result  of  long  habit,  it  always  works 
by  a  sort  of  external  compulsion,  which  Nature  never  ceases  to 
resist  and  sometimes  unexpededly  overcomes.  The  difference 
between  a6lion  in  accordance  with  abstract  principles,  and  ac- 
tion as  the  result  of  original,  innate  tendency,  is  the  same  as 
that  between  a  work  of  art,  say  a  watch — where  form  and 
movement  are  impressed  upon  shapeless  and  inert  matter — and 
a  living  organism,  where  form  and  matter  are  one,  and  each 
is  inseparable  from  the  other. 

There  is  a  maxim  attributed  to  the   Emperor  Napoleon, 


74  COUNSELS    ANP    MAXIMS. 

which  expresses  this  relation  between  acquired  and  innate 
chara6ler,  and  confirms  what  I  have  said  :  everything  that  is 
unnaturalis  imperfeB  ; — a  rule  of  universal  application,  wheth- 
er in  the  physical  or  in  the  moral  sphere.  The  only  exception 
I  can  think  of  to  this  rule  is  aventurine,^  a  substance  known  to 
mineralogists,  which  in  its  natural  state  cannot  compare  with 
the  artificial  preparation  of  it. 

And  in  this  connection  let  me  uttei'  a  word  of  protest  against 
any  and  every  form  of  affenation.  It  always  arouses  contempt ; 
in  the  first  place,  because  it  argues  deception,  and  the  decep- 
tion is  cowardly,  for  it  is  based  on  fear  ;  and,  secondly,  it 
argues  self-condemnation,  because  it  means  that  a  man  is  try- 
ing to  appear  what  he  is  not,  and  therefore  something  which 
he  thinks  better  than  he  ac^tually  is.  To  affe6l  a  quality,  and 
to  plume  yourself  upon  it,  is  just  to  confess  that  you  have  not 
got  it.  Whether  it  is  courage,  or  learning,  or  intellect,  or 
wit,  or  success  with  women,  or  riches,  or  social  position,  or 
whatever  else  it  may  be  that  a  man  boasts  of,  you  may  con- 
clude by  his  boasting  about  it  that  that  is  precisely  the  direc- 
tion in  which  he  is  rather  weak  ;  for  if  a  man  really  possesses 
any  faculty  to  the  full,  it  will  not  occur  to  him  to  make  a  great 
show  of  aflfedling  it ;  he  is  quite  content  to  know  that  he  has  it. 
That  is  the  application  of  the  Spanish  proverb  :  herradura  que 
chacolotea  clavo  le  falta — a  clattering  hoof  means  a  nail  gone. 
To  be  sure,  as  I  said  at  first,  no  man  ought  to  let  the  reins  go 
quite  loose,  and  show  himself  just  as  he  is  ;  for  there  are  many 
evil  and  bestial  sides  to  our  nature  which  require  to  be  hidden 
away  out  of  sight ;  and  this  justifies  the  negative  attitude  of 
dissimulation,  but  it  does  not  justify  a  positive  feigning  of 
qualities  which  are  not  there.  It  should  also  be  remembered 
that  affectation  is  recognized  at  once,  even  before  it  is  clear 
what  it  is  that  is  being  affedled.  And,  finally,  affectation  can 
not  last  very  long,  and  one  day  the  mask  will  fall  off.  Nemo 
potest  personam  diuferrefidam,  says  Senca  ;  ^  ficta  cito  in  na- 

'  Translator'' s  Note. — Aventurine  is  a  rare  kind  of  quartz  ;  and  the 
same  name  is  given  to  a  brownish-colored  glass  much  resembling  it, 
which  is  manufactured  at  Murano.  It  is  so-called  from  the  fadl  that 
the  glass  was  discovered  by  chance  {arventura).    * De  dementia,  1. 1. 


OUR    RELATION    TO    OTHERS.  75 

turarh  suam  recidunt — ^no  one  can  persevere  long  in  a  fictitious 
chara6ler  ;  for  nature  will  soon  re-assert  itself. 

Section  31.  A  man  bears  the  weight  of  his  own  body 
without  knowing  it,  but  he  soon  feels  the  weight  of  any  other, 
if  he  tries  to  move  it ;  in  the  same  way,  a  man  can  see  other 
people's  shortcomings  and  vices,  but  he  is  blind  to  his  own. 
This  arrangement  has  one  advantage  :  it  turns  other  people  in- 
to a  kind  of  mirror,  in  which  a  man  can  see  clearly  everything 
that  is  vicious,  faulty,  ill-bred  and  loathsome  in  his  own  nature  ; 
only,  it  is  generally  the  old  story  of  the  dog  barking  at  its  own 
image  ;  it  is  himself  that  he  sees  and  not  another  dog,  as  he 
fancies. 

He  who  criticises  others,  works  at  the  reformation  of  him- 
self. Those  who  form  the  secret  habit  of  scrutinizing  other 
people's  general  behavior,  and  passing  severe  judgment  upon 
what  they  do  and  leave  undone,  thereby  improve  themselves, 
and  work  out  their  own  perfedlion  :  for  they  will  have  sufficient 
sense  of  justice,  or  at  any  rate  enough  pride  and  vanity,  to 
avoid  in  their  own  case  that  which  they  condemn  so  harshly 
elsewhere.  But  tolerant  people  are  just  the  opposite,  and 
claim  for  themselves  the  same  indulgence  that  they  extend  to 
others — hayic  veniam  damns peiimus que  vicissim.  It  is  all  very 
well  for  the  Bible  to  talk  about  the  mote  in  another's  eye  and 
the  beam  in  one's  own.  The  nature  of  the  eye  is  to  look  not 
at  itself  but  at  other  things  ;  and  therefore  to  observe  and 
blame  faults  in  another  is  a  very  suitable  way  of  becoming  con- 
scious of  one's  own.  We  require  a  looking  glass  for  the  due 
dressing  of  our  morals. 

The  same  rule  applies  in  the  case  of  style  and  tine  writing. 
If,  instead  of  condemning,  you  applaud  some  new  folly  in 
these  matters,  you  will  imitate  it.  That  is  just  why  literary 
follies  have  such  vogue  in  Germany.  The  Germans  are  a  very 
tolerant  people — everybody  can  see  that !  Their  maxim  is — 
Hanc  veniam  damns  petimnsqne  vicissim. 

Section  32.  When  he  is  young,  a  man  of  noble  character 
^ncies  that  the  relations  prevailing  amongst  mankind,  and  the 
alliances  to  which  these  relations  lead,   are,   at   bottom  and 


76  COUNSELS    AND   MAXIMS. 

essentially,  ideal  in  their  nature  ;  that  is  to  say,  that  they  rest 
upon  similarity  of  disposition  or  sentiment,  or  taste,  or  intel- 
ledlual  power,  and  so  on. 

But,  later  on,  he  finds  out  that  it  is  a  real  foundation  which 
underlies  these  alliances  ;  that  they  are  based  upon  some 
mtf/ma/ interest.  This  is  the  true  foundation  of  almost  all 
alliances  :  nay,  most  men  have  no  notion  of  an  alliance  resting 
upon  any  other  basis.  Accordingly  we  find  that  a  man  is 
always  measured  by  the  office  ne  holds,  or  by  his  occupation, 
nationality,  or  family  relations — in  a  word,  by  the  position  and 
chara6ler  which  have  been  assigned  him  in  the  conventional 
arrangements  of  life,  where  he  is  ticketed  and  treated  as  so 
much  goods.  Reference  to  what  he  is  in  himself,  as  a  man — 
to  the  measure  of  his  own  personal  qualities — is  never  made 
unless  for  convenience'  sake  :  and  so  that  view  of  a  man  is 
something  exceptional,  to  be  set  aside  and  ignored,  the  mo- 
ment that  anyone  finds  it  disagreeable  ;  and  this  is  what  usual- 
ly happens.  But  the  more  of  personal  worth  a  man  has,  the 
less  pleasure  he  will  take  in  these  conventional  arrangements  ; 
and  he  will  try  to  withdraw  from  the  sphere  in  which  they 
apply.  The  reason  why  these  arrangements  exist  at  all,  is 
simply  that  in  this  world  of  ours  misery  and  need  are  the  chief 
features  :  therefore  it  is  everywhere  the  essential  and  paramount 
business  of  life  to  devise  the  means  of  alleviating  them. 

Section  33.  As  paper-money  circulates  in  the  world  in- 
stead of  real  coin,  so,  is  the  place  of  true  esteem  and  genuine 
friendship,  you  have  the  outward  appearance  of  it — a  mimic 
show  made  to  look  as  much  like  the  real  thing  as  possible. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  asked  whether  there  are  any 
people  who  really  deserve  the  true  coin.  For  my  own  part,  I 
should  certainly  pay  more  respedl  to  an  honest  dog  wagging 
his  tail  than  to  a  hundred  such  demonstrations  of  human 
regard. 

True  and  genuine  friendship  presupposes  a  strong  sympathy 
with  the  weal  and  woe  of  another — purely  objective  in  its 
character  and  quite  disinterested ;  and  this  in  its  turn  means 
an  absolute  identification  of  self  with  the  obje<S  of  friendship. 


OUR   RELATION   TO    OTHERS.  77 

The  egoism  of  human  nature  is  so  strongly  antagonistic  to  any 
such  sympathy,  that  true  friendship  belongs  to  that  class  of 
things — the  sea-serpent,  for  instance, — with  regard  to  which  no 
one  knows  whether  they  are  fabulous  or  really  exist  somewhere 
or  other. 

Still,  in  many  cases,  there  is  a  grain  of  true  and  genuine 
friendship  in  the  relations  of  man  to  man,  though  generally,  of 
course,  some  secret  personal  interest  is  at  the  bottom  of  them 
— some  one  among  the  many  forms  that  selfishness  can  take. 
But  in  a  world  where  all  is  imperfe6l,  this  grain  of  true  feeling 
is  such  an  ennobhng  influence  that  it  gives  some  warrant  for 
calling  those  relations  by  the  name  of  friendship,  for  they  stand 
far  above  the  ordinary  friendships  that  prevail  amongst  man- 
kind. The  latter  are  so  constituted  that,  were  you  to  hear  how 
your  dear  friends  speak  of  you  behind  your  bacic,  you  would 
never  say  another  word  to  them. 

Apart  from  the  case  where  it  would  be  a  real  help  to  you  if  your 
friend  were  to  make  some  great  sacrifice  to  serve  you,  there  is 
no  better  means  of  testing  the  genuineness  of  his  feelings  than 
the  way  in  which  he  receives  the  news  of  a  misfortune  that 
has  just  happened  to  you.  At  that  moment  the  expression 
ol  his  features  will  either  show  that  his  one  thought  is  that  of 
true  and  sincere  sympathy  for  you  ;  or  else  the  absolute  com- 
posure of  his  countenance,  or  the  passing  trace  of  something 
other  than  sympathy,  will  confirm  the  well-known  maxim  of 
La  Rochefoucauld  :  Dans  V  adversity  de  nos  meilleurs  amis, 
nous  trquvons  toujours  quelque  chose  qui  ne  nous  diplait  pas. 
Indeed,  at  such  a  moment,  the  ordinary  so-called  friend  will 
find  it  hard  to  suppress  the  signs  of  a  slight  smile  of  pleasure. 
There  are  few  ways  by  which  you  can  make  more  certain  of 
putting  people  into  a  good  humor  than  by  teUing  them  of  some 
trouble  that  has  recently  befallen  you,  or  by  unreservedly  dis- 
closing some  personal  weakness  of  yours.  How  chara<5leristic 
this  is  of  humanity  ! 

Distance  and  long  absence  are  always  prejudicial  to  friend- 
ship, however  disinclined  a  man  may  be  to  admit  it.  Our  re- 
gard for  people  whom  we  do  not  see — even  though  they  be 


78'  COUNSELS  AND   MAXIMS. 

our  dearest  friends — gradually  dries  up  in  the  course  of  years, 
and  they  become  abstradl  notions  j  so  that  our  interest  in  them- 
grows  to  be  more  and  more  intelle<5lual, — nay,  it  is  kept  up 
only  as  a  kind  of  tradition  ;  whilst  we  retain  a  lively  and  deep 
interest  in  those  who  are  constantly  before  our  eyes,  even  if 
they  be  only  pet  animals.  This  shows  how  much  men  are 
limited  by  their  senses,  and  how  true  is  the  remark  that  Goethe 
makes  in  Tasso  about  the  dominant  influence  of  the  present 
moment : — 

Die  Gegenwart  ist  eine  machtige  GotHn.^ 

Friends  of  the  house  are  very  rightly  so  called  ;  because  they 
are  friends  of  the  house  rather  than  of  its  master ;  in  other 
words,  they  are  more  like  cats  than  dogs. 

Your  friends  will  tell  you  that  they  are  sincere  ;  your  ene- 
mies are  really  so.  Let  your  enemies'  censure  be  like  a  bitter 
medicine,  to  be  used  as  a  means  of  self-knowledge. 

A  friend  in  need,  as  the  saying  goes,  is  rare.  Nay,  it  is  just 
the  contrary  ;  no  sooner  have  you  made  a  friend  than  he  is  in 
need,  and  asks  you  for  a  loan. 

Section  34.  A  man  must  be  still  a  greenhorn  in  the  ways 
of  the  world,  if  he  imagines  that  he  can  make  himself  popular 
in  society  by  exhibiting  intelligence  and  discernment.  With 
the  immense  majority  of  people,  such  qualities  excite  hatred 
and  resentment,  which  are  rendered  all  the  harder  to  bear  by 
the  fa6t  that  people  are  obliged  to  suppress — even  from  them- 
selves— the  real  reason  of  their  anger. 

What  a6tually  takes  place  is  this.  A  man  feels  and  perceives 
that  the  person  with  whom  he  is  conversing  is  intelle6tually 
very  much  his  superior.*  He  thereupon  secretly  and  half- 
unconsciously  concludes  that  his  interlocutor  must  form  a  pro- 
portionately low  and  limited  estimate  of  his  abilities.     That  is 

'  A<ft  iv.,  so.  4. 

*  Cf.  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vorstellung,  Bk.  II.  p.  256  (4th  Edit.), 
where  1  quote  from  Dr.  Johnson,  and  from  Merck,  the  friend  of 
Goethe's  youth.  The  former  says  :  There  is  nothing  by  which  a  man 
exasperates  most  people  more,  than  by  displaying  a  superior  ability  of 
brilliancy  in  conversation.  They  seem  pleased  at  the  time,  but  their 
envy  makes  them  curse  him  at  their  hearts.  (Boswell's  Life  0/ John- 
son aetat :  74.) 


OUR    RELATION   TO    OTHERS.  fq 

a  method  of  reasoning — an  enthymeme — which  rouses  the 
bitterest  feelings  of  sullen  and  rancorous  hatred.  And  SO 
Gracian  is  quite  right  in  saying  that  the  only  Way  tO  wifl  affec- 
tion from  people  is  to  show  the  most  animal-like  simplicity  Of 
demeanor — />ara  ser  bien  guisio,  el  unico  medio  VCStiTSe  la  plci 
del  mas  simple  de  los  brulos} 

To  show  your  intelligence  and  discernment  is  only  an  indi- 
re(5l  way  of  reproaching  other  people  for  being  dull  and  in- 
capable. And  besides,  it  is  natural  for  a  vulgar  man  to  be  vio- 
lently agitated  by  the  sight  of  opposition  in  any  form  ;  and  in 
this  case  envy  comes  in  as  the  secret  cause  of  his  hostility.  For 
it  is  a  matter  of  daily  observation  that  people  take  the  greatest 
pleasure  in  that  which  satisfies  their  vanity  ;  and  vanity  cannot 
be  satisfied  without  comparison  with  others.  Now,  there  is 
nothing  of  which  a  man  is  prouder  than  of  intelle6tual  ability, 
for  it  i.=  this  that  gives  him  his  commanding  place  in  the  animal 
world.  It  is  an  exceedingly  rash  thing  to  let  anyone  see  that 
you  are  decidedly  superior  to  him  in  this  respect,  and  to  let 
other  people  see  it  too  ;  because  he  will  then  thirst  for  venge- 
ance, and  generally  look  about  for  an  opportunity  of  taking  it 
by  means  of  insult,  because  this  is  to  pass  from  the  sphere  of 
intelle^l  to  that  of  will — and  there,  all  are  on  an  equal  footing 
as  regards  the  feeling  of  hostility.  Hence,  while  rank  and 
riches  may  always  reckon  upon  deferential  treatment  in  society, 
that  is  something  which  intelledlual  ability  can  never  expedl ; 
to  be  ignored  is  the  greatest  favor  shown  to  it  ;  and  if  people 
notice  it  at  all,  it  is  because  they  regard  it  as  a  piece  of  imperti- 
nence, or  else  as  something  to  which  its  possessor  has  no 
legitimate  right,  and  upon  which  he  dares  to  pride  himself; 
and  in  retaliation  and  revenge  for  his  condudl,  people  secredy 
try  and  humiliate  him  in  some  other  way  ;  and  if  they  wait  to 

'  Translator's  Npte. — Balthazar  Gracian,  Oraculo  manual,  y  arte  dc 
prudencia,  240.  Gracian  (1584-1658^  was  a  Spanish  prose  writer  and 
Jesuit,  whose  works  deal  chiefly  with  the  observation  of  charaAer  in 
the  various  phenomena  of  life.  Schopenhauer,  among  others,  had  a 
great  admiration  for  his  worldly  philosophy,  and  translated  his 
Oraculo  manual — a  system  of  rules  for  the  conduct  of  life — into  Ger- 
man. The  same  book  was  translated  into  English  towards  the  close . 
of  the  seventeenth  century. 


80  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

do  this,  it  is  only  for  a  fitting  opportunity.  A  man  may  be  as 
humble  as  possible  in  his  demeanor,  and  yet  hardly  ever  get 
people  to  overlook  his  crime  in  standing  intelledually  above 
them.  In  the  Garden  of  Roses,  Sadi  makes  the  remark  : —  Vou 
should  know  that  foolish  people  are  a  hundredfold  more  averse 
to  meeting  the  wise  than  the  wise  are  indisposed  for  the  company 
of  the  foolish. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  a  real  recommendation  to  be  stupid. 
For  just  as  warmth  is  agreeable  to  the  body,  so  it  does  the 
mind  good  to  feel  its  superiority  ;  and  a  man  will  seek  com- 
pany likely  to  give  him  this  feeling,  as  instindively  as  he  will 
approach  the  fire  place  or  walk  in  the  sun  if  he  wants  to  get 
warm.  But  this  means  that  he  will  be  disliked  on  account  of 
his  superiority  ;  and  if  a  man  is  to  be  liked,  he  must  really  be 
inferior  in  point  of  intelledl  ;  and  the  same  thing  holds  good  of 
a  woman  in  point  of  beauty.  To  give  proof  of  real  and  un- 
feigned inferiority  to  some  of  the  people  you  meet — that  is  a 
very  difficult  business  indeed  ! 

Consider  how  kindly  and  heartily  a  girl  who  is  passably 
pretty  will  welcome  one  who  is  downright  ugly.  Physical  ad- 
vantages are  not  thought  so  much  of  in  the  case  of  man,  though 
I  suppose  you  would  rather  a  little  man  sat  next  to  you  than 
one  who  was  bigger  than  yourself  This  is  why,  amongst  men, 
it  is  the  dull  and  ignorant,  and  amongst  women,  the  ugly,  who 
are  always  popular  and  in  request.*  It  is  likely  to  be  said  of 
such  people  that  they  are   extremely  good-natured,  because 

>  If  you  desire  to  get  on  in  the  world,  friends  and  acquaintances  are 
by  far  the  best  passport  t  j  fortune.  The  possession  of  a  great  deal  of 
abiUty  makes  a  man  proud,  and  therefore  not  apt  to  flatter  those  who 
have  very  little,  and  from  whom,  on  that  account,  the  possession  of 
great  ability  should  be  carefully  concealed.  The  consciousness  of 
small  intellectual  power  has  just  the  opposite  efied,  and  is  very  com- 
patible with  a  humble,  affable  and  companionable  nature,  and  with 
respect  for  what  is  mean  and  wretched.  This  is  why  an  inferior  sort 
of  man  has  so  many  people  to  befriend  and  encourage  him. 

These  remarks  are  applicable  not  only  to  advancement  in  political 
life,  but  to  all  competition  for  places  of  honor  and  dignity,  nay,  even 
for  reputation  in  tlie  world  of  science,  literature  and  art.  In  learned 
societies,  for  example,  mediocrity — that  very  acceptable  quality — is 
always  to  the  fore,  whilst  merit  meets  with  tardy  recognition,  or  with 
none  at  all.     So  it  is  in  everything. 


OUR    RELATION   TO    OTHERS.  Si 

everyone  wants  to  find  a  pretext  for  caring  about  them — a  pre- 
text which  will  blind  both  himself  and  other  people  to  the  real 
reason  why  he  likes  them.  This  is  also  why  mental  superiority 
of  any  sort  always  tends  to  isolate  its  possessor  :  people  run 
away  from  him  out  of  pure  hatred,  and  say  all  manner  of  bad 
things  about  him  by  way  of  justifying  their  action.  Beauty, 
in  the  case  of  women,  has  a  similar  effe6l :  very  pretty  girls 
have  no  friends  of  their  own  sex,  and  they  even  find  it  hard  to 
get  another  girl  to  keep  them  company.  A  handsome  woman 
should  always  avoid  applying  for  a  position  as  companion,  be- 
cause the  moment  she  enters  the  room,  her  prospe6live  mis- 
tress will  scowl  at  her  beauty,  as  a  piece  of  folly  with  which, 
both  for  her  own  and  for  her  daughters'  sake,  she  can  very 
well  dispense.  But  if  the  girl  has  advantages  of  rank,  the  case 
is  very  different ;  because  rank,  unlike  personal  qualities 
which  work  by  the  force  of  mere  contrast,  produces  its  effe6l 
by  a  process  of  refle6lion  ;  much  in  the  same  way  as  the  par- 
ticular hueof  a  person's  complexion  depends  upon  the  prevail- 
ing tone  of  his  immediate  surroundings. 

Section  35.  Our  trust  in  other  people  often  consists  in 
great  measure  of  pure  laziness,  selfishness  and  vanity  on  our 
own  part  :  I  say  laziness,  because,  instead  of  making  inquiries 
ourselves,  and  exercising  an  adlive  care,  we  prefer  to  trust 
others  ;  selfishness,  because  we  are  led  to  confide  in  people  by 
the  pressure  of  our  own  affairs  ;  and  vanity,  when  we  ask  con- 
fidence for  a  matter  on  which  we  rather  pride  ourselves.  And 
yet,  for  all  that,  we  expe6l  people  to  be  true  to  the  trust  we 
repose  in  them. 

But  we  ought  not  to  become  angry  if  people  put  no  trust  in 
us  :  because  that  really  means  that  they  pay  honesty  the  sincere 
compliment  of  regarding  it  as  a  very  rare  thing, — so  rare,  in- 
deed, as  to  leave  us  in  doubt  whether  its  existence  is  not 
merely  fabulous. 

Section  36.  Politeness, — which  the  Chinese  hold  to  be  a 
cardinal  virtue, — is  based  upon  two  considerations  of  policy.  I 
have  explained  one  ol  these  considerations  in  my  Ethics  ;  the 
other  is  as  follows  : — Politeness    is   a  tacit   agreement   that 


S2  COUNSELS   AND    MAXIMS. 

people's  miserable  defeats,  whether  moral  or  intelleAual,  shall 
on  either  side  be  ignored  and  not  made  the  subje<5l  of  reproach  ; 
and  since  these  defe6ls  are  thus  rendered  somewhat  less  obtru- 
sive, the  result  is  mutually  advantageous.* 

It  is  a  wise  thing  to  be  polite  ;  consequentiy,  it  is  a  stupid 
thing  to  be  rude.  To  make  enemies  by  unnecessary  and  willful 
incivility,  is  just  as  insane  a  proceeding  as  to  set  your  house 
on  fire.  For  politeness  is  like  a  counter — an  avowedly  false 
coin,  with  which  it  is  foolish  to  be  stingy.  A  sensible  man  will 
be  generous  in  the  use  of  it.  It  is  customary  in  every  country 
to  end  a  letter  with  the  words  -.—your  most  obedient  servant — 
votre  tris-humble  serviteur — suo  devotissitno  servo.  (The  Ger- 
mans are  the  only  people  who  suppress  the  word  servant — 
Diener — because,  of  course,  it  is  not  true  !)  However,  to 
carry  politeness  to  such  an  extent  as  to  damage  your  prospe<5ls, 
is  hke  giving  money  where  only  counters  are  expe6led. 

Wax,  a  substance  naturally  hard  and  brittle,  can  be  made 
soft  by  the  application  of  a  little  warmth,  so  that  it  will  take 
any  shape  you  please.  In  the  same  way,  by  being  polite  and 
friendly,  you  can  make  people  pliable  and  obhging,  even 
though  they  are  apt  to  be  crabbed  and  malevolent.  Hence 
politeness  is  to  human  nature  what  warmth  is  to  wax. 

Of  course,  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  be  polite  ;  in  so  far,  I 
mean,  as  it  requires  us  to  show  great  respe6l  for  everybody, 
whereas  most  people  deserve  none  at  all  ;  and  again  in  so  far 
as  it  demands  that  we  should  feign  the  most  lively  interest  in 
people,  when  we  must  be  very  glad  that  we  have  nothing  to 
do  with  them.  To  combine  politeness  with  pride  is  a  master- 
piece of  wisdom. 

We  should  be  much  less  ready  to  lose  our  temper  over  an 
insult, — which,  in  the  stri<5l  sense  of  the  word,  means  that  we 

'  Translator' s  Note. — In  the  passage  referred  to  ( Grundlage  der 
Moral,  colleded  works,  Vol.  IV.,  pp.  187  and  198),  Schopenhauer  ex- 
plains politeness  as  a  conventional  and  systematic  attempt  to  mask 
the  egoism  of  human  nature  in  the  small  affairs  of  life, — an  egoism  so 
repulsive  that  some  such  device  is  necessary  for  the  purpose  of  con- 
cealing its  ugliness.  The  relation  which  politeness  bears  to  the  true 
love  of  one's  neighbor  is  analogous  to  that  existing  between  justice  as 
an  affair  of  legality,  and  justice  as  tlie  real  integrity  of  the  heart. 


OUR   RELATION  TO    OTHERS.  ^J 

have  not  been  treated  with  respe6l, — if,  on  the  one  hand,  we  have 
not  such  an  exaggerated  estimate  of  our  value  and  dignity — 
that  is  to  say,  if  we  were  not  so  immensely  proud  of  ourselves  ; 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  if  we  had  arrived  at  any  clear  notion 
of  the  judgment  which,  in  his  heart,  one  man  generally  passes 
upon  another.  If  most  people  resent  the  slightest  hint  that  any 
blame  attaches  to  them,  you  may  imagine  their  feelings  if  they 
were  to  overhear  what  their  acquaintances  say  about  them. 
You  should  never  lose  sight  of  the  fa6l  that  ordinary  politeness 
is  only  a  grinning  mask  :  if  it  shifts  its  place  a  little,  or  is  re- 
moved for  a  moment,  there  is  no  use  raising  a  hue  and  cry. 
When  a  man  is  downright  rude,  it  is  as  though  he  had  taken 
off  all  his  clothes,  and  stood  before  you  in  puris  ncUuralibus. 
Like  most  men  in  this  condition,  he  does  not  present  a  very 
attra6live  appearance. 

Section  37.  You  ought  never  to  take  any  man  as  a  model 
for  what  you  should  do  or  leave  undone  ;  because  position  and 
circumstances  are  in  no  two  cases  alike,  and  difference  of 
chara6ter  gives  a  peculiar,  individual  tone  to  what  a  man  does. 
Hence  dtw  cum  faciunt  idem,  non  est  idem — two  persons  may 
do  the  same  thing  with  a  different  result.  A  man  should  a6l  in 
accordance  with  his  own  chara6ler,  as  soon  as  he  has  carefully 
deliberated  on  what  he  is  about  to  do. 

The  outcome  of  this  is  that  originality  cannot  be  dispensed 
with  in  practical  matters  :  otherwise,  what  a  man  does  will  not 
accord  with  what  he  is. 

Section  38.  Nevercombatany  man's  opinion  ;  for  though 
you  reached  the  age  of  Methuselah,  you  would  never  have 
done  setting  him  right  upon  all  the  absurd  things  that  he 
believes. 

It  is  also  well  to  avoid  corre(5ling  people's  mistakes  in  con- 
versation, however  good  your  intentions  may  be  ;  for  it  is  easy 
to  offend  people,  and  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  mend  them. 

If  you  feel  irritated  by  the  absurd  remarks  of  two  people 
whose  conversation  you  happen  to  overhear,  you  should  im- 
agine that  you  are  listening  to  the  dialogue  of  two  fools  in  a 
comedy.     Probatum  est. 


84  COUNSELS    AND   MAXIMS. 

The  man  who  comes  into  the  world  with  the  notion  that  he 
is  really  going  to  instru6l  it  in  matters  of  the  highest  import- 
ance, may  thank  his  stars  if  he  escapes  with  a  whole  skin. 

Section  39.  If  you  want  your  judgment  to  be  accepted, 
express  it  coolly  and  without  passion.  All  violence  has  its  seat 
in  the  will ;  and  so,  if  your  judgment  is  expressed  with  vehe- 
mence, people  will  consider  it  an  effort  of  will,  and  not  the  out- 
come of  knowledge,  which  is  in  its  nature  cold  and  unimpas- 
sioned.  Since  the  will  is  the  primary  and  radical  element  in 
human  nature,  and  intellefl  merely  supervenes  as  something 
secondary,  people  are  more  likely  to  believe  that  the  opinion 
you  express  with  so  much  vehemence  is  due  to  the  excited 
state  of  your  will,  rather  than  that  the  excitement  of  the  will 
comes  only  from  the  ardent  nature  of  your  opinion. 

Section  40.  Even  when  you  are  fully  justified  in  praising 
yourself,  you  should  never  be  seduced  into  doing  so.  For 
vanity  is  so  very  common,  and  merit  so  very  uncommon,  that 
even  if  a  man  appears  to  be  praising  himself,  though  very 
indire6lly,  people  will  be  ready  to  lay  a  hundred  to  one  that 
he  is  talking  out  of  pure  vanity,  and  that  he  has  not  sense 
enough  to  see  what  a  fool  he  is  making  of  himself. 

Still,  for  all  that,  there  may  be  some  truth  in  Bacon's  re- 
mark that,  as  in  the  case  of  calumny,  if  you  throw  enough  dirt, 
some  of  it  will  stick,  so  it  is  also  in  regard  to  self-praise  ;  with 
the  conclusion  that  self-praise,  in  small  doses,  is  to  be  recom- 
mended.^ 

Section  41.  If  you  have  reason  to  suspe6l  that  a  person  is 
telling  you  a  lie^  look  as  though  you  believed  every  word  he 
said.  This  will  give  him  courage  to  go  on  ;  he  will  become 
more  vehement  in  his  assertions,  and  in  the  end  betray  himself. 

Again,  if  you  perceive  that  a  person  is  trying  to  conceal 

something  from  you,    but  with  only  partial  success,   look  as 

'  Translator's  Note. — Schopenhauer  alludes  to  the  following  pas- 
sage in  Bacon's  De  Augtnentis  Scientiarutn,  Bk.  viii.,  ch.  2:  Sicut 
enitn  did  solet  de  calutnnia,  audac^ter  calumniare,  semper  aliquid 
haeret ;  sic  did  potest  de  jaSlantta ,  ( nisi  plane  de/ormis  fiierit  et  ridi- 
cula,)  audadler  te  vendila,  semper  aliquid  haeret.  Haerebit  certe 
apud  populutn ,  licet  prudentiores  subridea  nt.  Itaque  existimatio  parta 
apud plurimos  paiccorum  fastidium  abunde  compensabii. 


OUR  RELATION    TO  OTHERS.  85 

though  you  did  not  believe  him.  This  opposition  on  your  part 
will  provoke  him  into  leading  out  his  reserve  of  truth  and 
bringing  the  whole  force  of  it  to  bear  upon  your  incredulity. 

Section  42.  You  should  regard  all  your  private  affairs  as 
secrets,  and,  in  respe6t  of  them,  treat  your  acquaintances,  even 
though  you  are  on  good  terms  with  them,  as  perfe6t  strangers, 
letting  them  know  nothing  more  than  they  can  see  for  them- 
selves. For  in  course  of  time,  and  under  altered  circumstances, 
you  may  find  it  a  disadvantage  that  they  know  even  the  most 
harmless  things  about  you. 

And,  as  a  general  rule,  it  is  more  advisable  to  show  your  in- 
telligence by  saying  nothing  than  by  speaking  out ;  for  silence 
is  a  matter  of  prudence,  whilst  speech  has  something  in  it  of 
vanity.  The  opportunities  for  displaying  the  one  or  the  other 
quality  occur  equally  often  ;  but  the  fleeting  satisfaction  afford- 
ed by  speech  is  often  preferred  to  the  permanent  advantage 
secured  by  silence. 

The  feeling  of  relief  which  lively  people  experience  in  speak- 
ing aloud  when  no  one  is  listening,  should  not  be  indulged,  lest 
it  grow  into  a  habit  ;  for  in  this  way  thought  establishes  such 
very  friendly  terms  with  speech,  that  conversation  is  apt  to  be- 
come a  process  of  thinking  aloud.  Prudence  exa6ts  that  a  wide 
gulf  should  be  fixed  between  what  we  think  and  what  we  say. 

At  times  we  fancy  that  people  are  utterly  unable  to  believe 
in  the  truth  of  some  statement  affe6ling  us  personally,  whereas 
it  never  occurs  to  them  to  doubt  it ;  but  if  we  give  them  the 
slightest  opportunity  of  doubting  it,  they  find  it  absolutely  im- 
possible to  believe  it  any  more.  We  often  betray  ourselves 
into  revealing  something,  simply  because  we  suppose  that 
people  cannot  help  noticing  it. — just  as  a  man  will  throw  him- 
self down  from  a  great  height  because  he  loses  his  head,  in 
other  words,  because  he  fancies  that  he  cannot  retain  a  firm 
footing  any  longer  ;  the  torment  of  his  position  is  so  great, 
that  he  thinks  it  better  to  put  an  end  to  it  at  once.  This  is  the 
kind  of  insanity  which  is  called  acrophobia. 

But  it  should  not  be  forgotten  how  clever  people  are  in  re- 
gard to  affairs  which  do  not  concern  them,  even  though  they 


86         -     -  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

show  no  particular  sign  of  acuteness  in  other  matters.  This  is 
a  kind  of  algebra  in  which  people  are  very  proficient  :  give 
them  a  single  fa6l  to  go  upon,  and  they  will  solve  the  most 
complicated  problems.  So,  if  you  wish  to  relate  some  event 
that  happened  long  ago,  without  mentioning  any  names,  or 
otherwise  indicating  the  persons  to  whom  you  refer,  you 
should  be  very  careful  not  to  introduce  into  your  narrative 
anything  that  might  point,  however  distantly,  to  some  definite 
fadt,  whether  it  is  a  particular  locality,  or  a  date,  or  the  name 
of  some  one  who  was  only  to  a  small  extent  implicated,  or  any- 
thing else  that  was  even  remotely  conne6led  with  the  event ; 
for  that  at  once  gives  people  something  positive  to  go  upon, 
and  by  the  aid  of  their  talent  for  this  sort  of  algebra,  they  will 
discover  all  the  rest.  Their  curiosity  in  these  matters  becomes 
a  kind  of  enthusiasm  :  their  will  spurs  on  their  intelle6l,  and 
drives  it  forward  to  the  attainment  of  the  most  remote  results. 
For  however  unsusceptible  and  indifferent  people  may  be  to 
general  and  universal  truths,  they  are  very  ardent  in  the  matter 
of  particular  details. 

In  keeping  with  what  I  have  said,  it  will  be  found  that  all 
those  who  profess  to  give  instruction  in  the  wisdom  of  life  are 
specially  urgent  in  commending  the  practice  of  silence,  and  as- 
sign manifold  reasons  why  it  should  be  observed  ;  so  it  is  not 
necessary  for  me  to  enlarge  upon  the  subjed  any  further. 
However,  I  may  just  add  one  or  two  little-known  Arabian 
proverbs,  which  occur  to  me  as  peculiarly  appropriate  : — 

Do  not  tell  a  friend  ariy thing  that  you  would  conceal  from 
an  enemy. 

A  secret  is  in  my  custody,  if  I  keep  it ;  but  should  it  escape 
me,  it  is  I  who  am  the  prisoner. 

The  tree  of  silence  bears  the  fruit  of  peace. 

Section  43.  Money  is  never  spent  to  so  much  advantage 
as  when  you  have  been  cheated  out  of  it ;  for  at  one  stroke  you 
have  purchased  prudence. 

Section  44.  If  possible,  no  animosity  should  be  felt  for 
anyone.  But  carefully  observe  and  remember  the  manner  in 
which  a  man  condu6ts  himself,  so  that  you  may  take  the  meas- 


OUR  RELATION   TO    OTHERS.  87 

ure  of  his  value, — at  any  rate  in  regard  to  yourself, — ^and  regu- 
late your  bearing  towards  him  accordingly  ;  never  losing  sight 
of  the  faft  that  character  is  unalterable,  and  that  to  forget  the 
bad  features  in  a  man's  disposition  is  like  throwing  away  hard- 
won  money.  Thus  you  will  protedl  yourself  against  the  results 
of  unwise  intimacy  and  foolish  friendship. 

Give  way  neither  to  love  nor  to  hate,  is  one  half  of  worldly 
wisdom  :  say  nothing  and  believe  nothing,  the  other  half  Tru- 
ly, a  world  where  there  is  need  of  such  rules  as  this  and  the 
following,  is  one  upon  which  a  man  may  well  turn  his  back. 

Section  45.  To  speak  angrily  to  a  person,  to  show  your 
hatred  by  what  you  say  or  by  the  way  you  look,  is  an  unnec- 
essary proceeding — dangerous,  foolish,  ridiculous,  and  vulgar. 

Anger  or  hatred  should  never  be  shown  otherwise  than  in 
what  you  do  ;  and  feelings  will  be  all  the  more  effe6live  in  a<5tion, 
in  so  far  as  you  avoid  the  exhibition  of  them  in  any  other  way. 
It  is  only  cold-blooded  animals  whose  bite  is  poisonous. 

Section  46.  To  speak  without  emphasizing  your  words — 
parler  sans  accent — is  an  old  rule  with  those  who  are  wise  in  the 
world's  ways.  It  means  that  you  should  leave  other  people  to 
discover  what  it  is  that  you  have  said  ;  and  as  their  minds  are 
slow,  you  can  make  your  escape  in  time.  On  the  other  hand, 
to  emphasize  your  meaning— ^ar/fr  avec  accent — is  to  address 
their  feelings  ;  and  the  result  is  always  the  opposite  of  what 
you  expe6l.  If  you  are  only  polite  enough  in  your  manner 
and  courteous  in  your  tone  there  are  many  people  whom  you 
may  abuse  outright,  and  yet  run  no  immediate  risk  of  offend- 
ing them. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

WORLDLY    FORTUNE. — SECTION   47. 

HOWEVER  varied  the  forms  that  human  destiny  may  take, 
the  same  elements  are  always  present  ;  and  so  life  is 
everywhere  much  of  a  piece,  whether  it  is  passed  in  the  cottage 
or  in  the  palace,  in  the  barrack  or  in  the  cloister.  Alter  the 
circumstance  as  much  as  you  please  !  point  to  strange  adven- 
tures, successes,  failures  !  life  is  like  a  sweet-shop,  where  there 
is  a  great  variety  of  things,  odd  in  shape  and  diverse  in  color 
— one  and  all  made  from  the  same  paste.  And  when  men 
speak  of  some  one's  success,  the  lot  of  the  man  who  has  failed 
is  not  so  very  different  as  it  seems.  The  inequalities  in  the 
world  are  like  the  combinations  in  a  kaleidoscope  ;  at  every 
turn  a  fresh  pi6ture  strikes  the  eye  ;  and  yet,  in  reality,  you 
see  only  the  same  bits  of  glass  as  you  saw  before. 

Section  48.  An  ancient  writer  says,  very  truly,  that  there 
are  three  great  powers  in  the  world  ;  Sagacity,  Strength,  and 
Luck,  — avveroc,  Kpdroc,  rvxv-    I  think  the  last  is  the  most  efficacious. 

A  man's  life  is  like  the  voyage  of  a  ship,  where  luck — secunda 
aut  adversa  foriuna — a6ts  the  part  of  the  wind,  and  speeds  the 
vessel  on  its  way  or  drives  it  far  out  of  its  course.  All  that  the 
man  can  do  for  himself  is  of  little  avail  ;  like  the  rudder, 
which,  if  worked  hard  and  continuously,  may  help  in  the 
navigation  of  the  ship  ;  and  yet  all  may  be  lost  again  by  a 
sudden  squall.  But  if  the  wind  is  only  in  the  right  quarter,  the 
ship  will  sail  on  so  as  not  to  need  any  steering.  The  power  of 
luck  is  nowhere  better  expressed  than  in  a  certain  Spanish 
proverb  :  Da  ventura  a  tu  hijo,  y  echa  lo  en  el  mar — give 
your  son  luck  and  throw  him  into  the  sea. 

(88) 


WORLDLY     FORTUNE.  89 

Still,  chance,  it  may  be  said,  is  a  malignant  power,  and  as 
little  as  possible  should  be  left  to  its  agency.  And  yet  where 
is  there  any  giver  who,  in  dispensing  gifts,  tells  us  quite  clear- 
ly that  we  have  no  right  to  them,  and  that  we  owe  them  not  to 
any  merit  on  our  part,  but  wholly  to  the  goodness  and  grace 
of  the  giver — at  the  same  time  allowing  us  to  cherish  the  joy- 
ful hope  of  receiving,  in  all  humility,  further  undeserved  gifts 
from  the  same  hands — where  is  there  any  giver  like  that,  unless 
it  be  Chance  ?  who  understands  the  kingly  art  of  showing  the 
recipient  that  all  merit  is  powerless  and  unavailing  against  the 
royal  grace  and  favor. 

On  looking  back  over  the  course  of  his  life, — that  labyrinth- 
ine way  of  error, — a  man  must  see  many  points  where  luck 
failed  him  and  misfortune  came  ;  and  then  it  is  easy  to  carry 
self-reproach  to  an  unjust  excess.  For  the  course  of  a  man's 
life  is  in  no  wise  entirely  of  his  own  making  ;  it  is  the  produ<5t 
of  two  fa6lors — the  series  of  things  that  happened,  and  his  own 
resolves  in  regard  to  them,  and  these  two  are  constantly  inter- 
a6ling  upon  and  modifying  each  other.  And  besides  these, 
another  influence  is  at  work  in  the  very  limited  extent  of  a 
man's  horizon,  whether  it  is  that  he  canwol  see  very  far  ahead 
in  respe6l  of  the  plans  he  will  adopt,  or  that  he  is  still  less  able 
'to  predi<5l  the  course  of  future  events  :  his  knowledge  is  stridl- 
ly  confined  to  present  plans  and  present  events.  Hence,  as 
long  as  a  man's  goal  is  far  off,  he  cannot  steer  straight  for  it ; 
he  must  be  content  to  make  a  course  that  is  approximately 
right ;  and  in  following  the  direction  in  which  he  thinks  he 
ought  to  go,  he  will  often  have  occasion  to  tack. 

All  that  a  man  can  do  is  to  form  such  resolves  as  from  time 
to  time  accord  with  the  circumstances  in  which  he  is  placed, 
in  the  hope  of  thus  managing  to  advance  a  step  nearer  towards 
the  final  goal.  It  is  usually  the  case  that  the  position  in  which 
we  stand,  and  the  obje6l  at  which  we  aim,  resemble  two  tend- 
encies working  with  dissimilar  strength  in  different  diredlions  ; 
and  the  course  of  our  life  is  represented  by  their  diagonal,  or 
resultant  force. 

Terence  makes  the  remark  that  life  is  like  a  game  at  dice, 


90  COUNSELS    AND   MAXIMS. 

where  if  the  number  that  turns  up  is  not  precisely  the  one  yon 
want,  you  can  still  contrive  to  use  it  equally  well : — in  vita  esf 
hominum  quasi  aim  ludas  tesseris ;  si  illud  quod  maxime  opus 
est  jailu  non  cadit,  illud  quod  cecidit  forte,  id  arte  ut  corrigas.  ^ 
Or,  to  put  the  matter  more  shortly,  life  is  like  a  game  of  cards, 
when  the  cards  are  shuffled  and  dealt  by  fate.  But  for  my 
present  purpose,  the  most  suitable  simile  would  be  that  of  a 
game  of  chess,  where  the  plan  we  determined  to  follow  is  con- 
ditioned by  the  play  of  our  rival, — in  life,  by  the  caprice  of  fate. 
We  are  compelled  to  modify  our  tallies,  often  to  such  an  extent 
that,  as  we  carry  them  out,  hardly  a  single  feature  of  the 
original  plan  can  be  recognized. 

But  above  and  beyond  all  this,  there  is  another  influence 
that  makes  itself  felt  in  our  lives.  It  is  a  trite  saying — only  too 
frequently  true — that  we  are  often  more  foolish  than  we  think. 
On  the  other  hand,  we  are  often  wiser  than  we  fancy  ourselves 
to  be.  This,  however,  is  a  discovery  which  only  those  can 
make,  of  whom  it  is  really  true  ;  and  it  takes  them  a  long  time 
to  make  it.  Our  brains  are  not  the  wisest  part  of  us.  In  the 
great  moments  of  life,  when  a  man  decides  upon  an  important 
step,  his  action  is  directed  not  so  much  by  any  clear  knowledge 
of  the  right  thing  to  do,  as  by  an  inner  impulse — you  may  al- 
most call  it  an  instin(5l — proceeding  from  the  deepest  founda- 
tions of  his  being.  If,  later  on,  he  attempts  to  criticise  his  ac- 
tion by  the  light  of  hard  and  fast  ideas  of  what  is  right  in  the 
abstraft — those  unprofitable  ideas  which  are  learnt  by  rote,  or, 
it  may  be,  borrowed  from  other  people  ;  if  he  begins  to  apply 
general  rules,  the  principles  which  have  guided  others,  to  his 
own  case,  without  sufficiently  weighing  the  maxim  that  one 
man's  meat  is  another's  poison,  then  he  will  run  great  risk  of 
doing  himself  an  injustice.  The  result  will  show  where  the 
right  course  lay.  It  is  only  when  a  man  has  reached  the  happy 
age  of  wisdom  that  he  is  capable  of  just  judgment  in  regard 
either  to  his  own  a6lions  or  to  those  of  others. 

It  may  be  that  this  impulse  or  instin6l  is  the  unconscious 

•  He  seems  to  have  been  referring  to  a  game  something  like  back- 
gammoa 


WORLDLY    FORTUNE.  9 1 

effeS.  of  a  kind  of  prophetic  dream  which  is  forgotten  when  we 
awake — lending  our  Hfe  a  uniformity  of  tone,  a  dramatic  unity, 
such  as  could  never  result  from  the  unstable  moments  of  con- 
sciousness, when  we  are  so  easily  led  into  error,  so  liable  to 
strike  a  false  note.  It  is  in  virtue  of  some  such  prophetic 
dream  that  a  man  feels  himself  called  to  great  achievements  in 
a  special  sphere,  and  works  in  that  dire6lion  from  his  youth  up 
out  of  an  inner  and  secret  feeling  that  that  is  his  true  path,  just 
as  by  a  similar  instind  the  bee  is  led  to  build  up  its  cells  in  the 
comb.  This  is  the  impulse  which  Balthazar  Gracian  calls  la 
gran  sinderesis,^ — the  great  power  of  moral  discernment  :  it  is 
something  that  a  man  instinctively  feels  to  be  his  salvation 
without  which  he  were  lost. 

To  a6l  in  accordance  with  abstract  principles  is  a  difficult 
matter,  and  a  great  deal  of  pradlice  will  be  required  before  you 
can  be  even  occasionally  successful ;  it  often  happens  that  the 
principles  do  not  fit  in  with  your  particular  case.  But  every 
man  has  certain  innate  concrete  principles — a  part,  as  it  were, 
of  the  very  blood  that  flows  in  his  veins,  the  sum  or  result,  in 
fa6t,  of  all  his  thoughts,  feelings  and  volitions.  Usually  he  has 
no  knowledge  of  them  in  any  abstract  form  ;  it  is  only  when  he 
looks  back  upon  the  course  his  life  has  taken,  that  he  becomes 
aware  of  having  been  always  led  on  by  them — as  though  they 
formed  an  invisible  clue  which  he  had  followed  unawares. 

Section  49.    That  Time  works  great  changes,  and  that  all 

things  are  in  their  nature  fleeting — these  are  truths  that  should 

'  Translator'' s  Note. — This  obscure  word  appears  to  be  derived  from 
the  Greek  awrripea  (N.T  and  Polyb. )  meaning  "to  observe  striAly." 
It  occurs  in  TAe  DoSlor  and  Student,  a.  series  of  dialogues  between  a 
doiSor  of  divinity  and  a  student  on  the  laws  of  England,  first  publish- 
ed in  1518;  and  is  there  (Dialog.  I.  ch.  13)  explained  as  "a  natural 
power  of  the  soule,  set  in  the  highest  part  thereof,  moving  and  stirring 
it  to  good,  and  abhoring  evil."  This  passage  is  copied  into  Milton's 
Commonplace  Book,  edit.  Horwood,  \  79.  The  word  is  also  found  in 
the  Diftionary  of  the  Spanish  Academy  (vol.  vi.  of  the  year  1739)  i^ 
the  sense  of  an  innate  discernment  of  moral  principles,  where  a  quota- 
tion is  given  from  Madre  Maria  de  Jesus,  abbess  of  the  convent  of  the 
Conception  at  Agreda,  a  mystical  writer  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
frequently  consulted  by  Philip  IV., — and  again  in  the  Bolognese  Dic- 
tionary of  1824,  with  a  similar  meaning,  illustrated  from  the  writings 
of  Salvini  (1653-1729).  For  these  references  I  am  indebted  to  the 
kindness  of  Mr.  Norman  Maccoll. 


92  COUNSELS   AND    MAXIMS. 

never  be  forgotten.  Hence,  in  whatever  case  you  may  be,  it 
is  well  to  pi6lure  to  yourself  the  opposite  :  in  prosperity,  to  be 
mindful  of  misfortune  ;  in  friendship,  of  enmity  ;  in  good 
weather,  of  days  when  the  sky  is  overcast  ;  in  love,  of  hatred  ; 
in  moments  of  trust,  to  imagine  the  betrayal  that  will  make 
you  regret  your  confidence  ;  and  so,  too,  when  you  are  in  evil 
plight,  to  have  a  lively  sense  of  happier  times — what  a  lasting 
source  of  true  worldly  wisdom  were  there  !  We  should  then 
always  refle6l,  and  not  be  so  very  easily  deceived  ;  because,  in 
general,  we  should  anticipate  the  very  changes  that  the  years 
will  bring. 

Perhaps  in  no  form  of  knowledge  is  personal  experience  so 
indispensable  as  in  learning  to  see  that  all  things  are  unstable 
and  transitory  in  this  world.  There  is  nothing  that,  in  its  own 
place  and  for  the  time  it  lasts,  is  not  a  product  of  necessity, 
and  therefore  capable  of  being  fully  justified  ;  and  it  is  this  fa6l 
that  makes  the  circumstances  of  every  year,  every  month, 
even  of  every  day.  seem  as  though  they  might  maintain  their 
right  to  last  to  all  eternity.  But  we  know  that  this  can  never 
be  the  case,  and  that  in  a  world  where  all  is  fleeting,  change 
alone  endures.  He  is  a  prudent  man  who  is  not  only  unde- 
ceived by  apparent  stability,  but  is  able  to  forecast  the  lines 
upon  which  movement  will  take  place.' 

But  people  generally  think  that  present  circumstances  will 
last,  and  that  matters  will  go  on  in  the  future  much  as  they 
have  done  in  the  past.  Their  mistake  arises  from  the  fa6l  that 
they  do  not  understand  the  causes  of  the  things  they  see — causes 
which,  unlike  the  effe6ls  they  produce,  contain  in  themselves 
the  germ  of  future  change.  The  effedls  are  all  that  people 
know,   and  they   hold  fast  to  them   on  the  supposition  that 

'  Chance  plays  so  great  a  part  in  all  human  affairs  that  when  a  man 
tries  to  ward  off  a  remote  danger  by  present  sacrifice,  the  danger 
often  vanishes  under  some  new  and  unforeseen  development  of 
events  ;  and  then  the  sacrifice,  in  addition  to  being  a  complete  loss, 
brings  about  such  an  altered  slate  of  things  as  to  be  in  itself  a  source 
of  positive  danger  in  the  face  of  this  new  development.  In  taking 
measures  of  precaution,  then,  it  is  well  not  to  look  too  far  ahead,  but 
to  reckon  with  chance  ;  and  often  to  oppose  a  courageous  front  to  a 
danger,  in  the  hope  that,  like  many  a  dark  thunder-cloud,  it  may  pass 
away  without  breaking. 


WORLDLY    FORTUNE.  93 

those  unknown  causes,  which  were  sufficient  to  bring  them 
about,  will  also  be  able  to  maintain  them  as  they  are.  This  is 
a  very  common  error  ;  and  the  fa<5l  that  it  is  common  is  not 
without  its  advantage,  for  it  means  that  people  always  err  in 
unison ;  and  hence  the  calamity  which  results  from  the  error 
afFe(^ls  all  alike,  and  is  therefore  easy  to  bear  ;  whereas,  if  a 
philosopher  makes  a  mistake,  he  is  alone  in  his  error,  and  so 
at  a  double  disadvantage.* 

But  in  saying  that  we  should  anticipate  the  effeds  of  time,  I 
mean  that  we  should  mentally  forecast  what  they  are  likely  to 
be  ;  I  do  not  mean  that  we  should  praftically  forestall  them,  by 
demanding  the  immediate  performance  of  promises  which  time 
alone  can  fulfill.  The  man  who  makes  this  demand  will  find 
out  that  there  is  no  worse  or  more  exa6ling  usurer  than  Time  ; 
and  that,  if  you  compel  Time  to  give  money  in  advance,  you 
will  have  to  pay  a  rate  of  interest  more  ruinous  than  any  Jew 
would  require.  It  is  possible,  for  instance,  to  make  a  tree 
burst  forth  into  leaf,  blossom,  or  even  bear  fruit  within  a  few 
days,  by  the  application  of  unslaked  lime  and  artificial  heat  ; 
but  after  that  the  tree  will  wither  away.  So  a  young  man  may 
abuse  his  strength — it  may  be  only  for  a  few  weeks — by  trying 
to  do  at  nineteen  what  he  could  easily  manage  at  thirty,  and 
Time  may  give  him  the  loan  for  which  he  asks  ;  but  the  in- 
terest he  will  have  to  pay  comes  out  of  the  strength  of  his  later 
years  ;  nay,  it  is  part  of  his  very  life  itself 

There  are  some  kinds  of  illness  in  which  entire  restoration 
to  health  is  possible  only  by  letting  the  complaint  run  its 
natural  course  ;  after  which  it  disappears  without  leaving  any 
trace  of  its  existence.  But  if  the  sufferer  is  very  impatient, 
and,  while  he  is  still  affeded,  insists  that  he  is  completely  well, 
in  this  case,  too,  Time  will  grant  the  loan,  and  the  complaint 
may  be  shaken  off ;  but  life-long  weakness  and  chronic  mis- 
chief will  be  the  interest  paid  upon  it. 

Again,  in  time  of  war  or  general  disturbance,  a  man  may 

'  I  may  remark,  parenthetically,  that  all  this  is  a  confirmation  of  the 
principle  laid  down  in  Die  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vorstellung  (  Bk.  I.  p. 
94  :  4th  edit.),  that  error  always  consists  in  making  a  wrong  inference ^ 
that  is,  in  ascribing  a  given  effect  to  something  that  did  not  cause  it. 


94  COUNSELS   AND   MAXIMS. 

require  ready  money  at  once,  and  have  to  sell  out  his  invest- 
ments in  land  or  consols  for  a  third  or  even  a  still  smaller 
fra<5lion  of  the  sum  he  would  have  received  for  them,  if  he 
could  have  waited  for  the  market  to  right  itself,  which  would 
have  happened  in  due  course  ;  but  he  compels  Time  to  grant 
him  a  loan,  and  his  loss  is  the  interest  he  has  to  pay.  Or  per- 
haps he  wants  to  go  on  a  long  journey  and  requires  the  money  : 
in  one  or  two  years  he  could  lay  by  a  sufficient  sum  out  of  his 
income,  but  he  cannot  afford  to  wait ;  and  so  he  either  borrows 
it  or  deducts  it  from  his  capital  ;  in  other  words,  he  gets  Time 
to  lend  him  the  money  in  advance.  The  interest  he  pays  is  a 
disordered  state  of  his  accounts,  and  permanent  and  increasing 
deficits,  which  he  can  never  make  good. 

Such  is  Time's  usury  ;  and  all  who  cannot  wait  are  its  vic- 
tims. There  is  no  more  thriftless  proceeding  than  to  try  and 
mend  the  measured  pace  of  Time.  Be  careful,  then,  not  to 
become  its  debtor. 

Section  50.  In  the  daily  affairs  of  life,  you  will  have  very 
many  opportunities  of  recognizing  a  chara<5leristic  difference 
between  ordinary  people  and  people  of  prudence  and  discre- 
tion. In  estimating  the  possibility  of  danger  in  connedlion 
with  any  undertaking,  an  ordinary  man  will  confine  his  in- 
quiries to  the  kind  of  risk  that  has  already  attended  such 
undertakings  in  the  past ;  whereas  a  prudent  person  will  look 
ahead,  and  consider  everything  that  might  possibly  happen  in 
the  future,  having  regard  to  a  certain  Spanish  maxim  :  lo  que  no 
acaece  en  un  ano,  acaece  en  un  rata — a  thing  may  not  happen 
in  a  year,  and  yet  may  happen  within  two  minutes. 

The  difference  in  question  is,  of  course,  quite  natural ;  for  it 
requires  some  amount  of  discernment  to  calculate  possibilities  ; 
but  a  man  need  only  have  his  senses  about  him  to  see  what  has 
already  happened. 

Do  not  omit  to  sacrifice  to  evil  spirits.  What  I  mean  is, 
that  a  man  should  not  hesitate  about  spending  time,  trouble, 
and  money,  or  giving  up  his  comfort,  or  restri6ling  his  aims 
and  denying  himself,  if  he  can  thereby  shut  the  door  on  the 
possibility  of  misfortune.     The  most  terrible  misfortunes  are 


WORLDLY    FORTUNE.  95 

also  the  most  improbable  and  remote — the  least  likely  to  occur. 
The  rule  I  am  giving  is  best  exemplified  in  the  pra6lice  of  in- 
surance,— a  public  sacrifice  made  on  the  altar  of  anxiety. 
Therefore  take  out  your  policy  of  insurance  !  . 

Section  51.  Whatever  fate  befalls  you,  do  not  give  way  to 
great  rejoicings  or  great  lamentations  ;  partly  because  all  things 
are  full  of  change,  and  your  fortune  may  turn  at  any  moment ; 
partly  because  men  are  so  apt  to  be  deceived  in  their  judgment 
as  to  what  is  good  or  bad  for  them. 

Almost  everyone  in  his  turn  has  lamented  over  something 
which  afterwards  turned  out  to  be  the  very  best  thing  for  him 
that  could  have  happened — or  rejoiced  at  an  event  which  be- 
came the  source  of  his  greatest  sufferings.  The  right  state  of 
mind  has  been  finely  portrayed  by  Shakespeare  : 

/  have  felt  so  many  quirks  of  joy  and  grief 
That  the  first  face  of  neither,  on  the  start, 
Can  woman  me  unto't.^ 

And,  in  general,  it  may  be  said  that,  if  a  man  takes  misfor- 
tunes quietly,  it  is  because  he  knows  that  very  many  dreadful 
things  may  happen  in  the  course  of  life  ;  and  so  he  looks  upon 
the  trouble  of  the  moment  as  only  a  very  small  part  of  that 
which  might  come.  This  is  the  Stoic  temper — never  to  be  un- 
mindful of  the  sad  fate  of  humanity — condidonis  humana 
oblitus ;  but  always  to  remember  that  our  existence  is  full  of 
woe  and  misery  :  and  that  the  ills  to  which  we  are  exposed  are 
innumerable.  Wherever  he  be,  a  man  need  only  cast  a  look 
around,  to  revive  the  sense  of  human  misery  :  there  before  his 
eyes  he  can  see  mankind  struggling  and  floundering  in  tor- 
ment,— all  for  the  sake  of  a  wretched  existence,  barren  and 
unprofitable  ! 

If  he  remembers  this,  a  man  will  not  expe<5l  very  much  from 
life,  but  learn  to  accommodate  himself  to  a  world  where  all  is 
relative  and  no  perfe6l  state  exists  ; — always  looking  misfortune 
in  the  face,  and  if  he  cannot  avoid  it,  meeting  it  with  courage. 

It  should  never  be  forgotten  that  misfortune,  be  it  great  or 
small,  is  the  element  in  which  we  live.     But  that  is  no  reason 
'  AIT 5  Well  that  Ends  Well,  Aa  in.  Sc.  z. 


96  COUNSELS  AND   MAXIMS. 

■ 

why  a  man  should  indulg*^  in  fretful  complaints,  and,  like 
Beresford,*  pull  a  long  face  over  the  Miseries  of  Human  Life, 
— and  not  a  single  hour  is  free  from  them  ;  or  still  less,  call 
upon  the  Deity  at  every  flea-bite — in  pulicis  morsu  Deum 
invocare.  Our  aim  should  be  to  look  well  about  us,  to  ward 
off  misfortune  by  going  to  meet  it,  to  attain  such  perfe6lion 
and  refinement  in  averting  the  disagreeable  things  of  life, — 
whether  they  come  from  our  fellow-men  or  from  the  physical 
world. — that,  Hke  a  clever  fox,  we  may  slip  out  of  the  way  of 
every  mishap,  great  or  small ;  remembering  that  a  mishap  is 
generally  only  our  own  awkwardness  in  disguise. 

The  main  reason  why  misfortune  falls  less  heavily  upon  us, 
if  we  have  looked  upon  its  occurrence  as  not  impossible,  and, 
as  the  saying  is,  prepared  ourselves  for  it,  may  be  this  :  if,  be- 
fore the  misfortune  comes,  we  have  quietly  thought  over  it  as 
something  which  may  or  may  not  happen,  the  whole  of  its  ex- 
tent and  range  is  known  to  us,  and  we  can,  at  least,  determine 
how  far  it  will  affedl  us  :  so  that,  if  it  really  arrives,  it  does  not 
depress  us  unduly — its  weight  is  not  felt  to  be  greater  than  it 
actually  is.  But  if  no  preparation  has  been  made  to  meet  it, 
and  it  comes  unexpedledly,  the  mind  is  in  a  state  of  terror  for 
the  moment  and  unable  to  measure  the  full  extent  of  the  calam- 
ity ;  it  seems  so  far-reaching  in  its  effedls  that  the  vidlim  might 
well  think  there  was  no  limit  to  them  ;  in  any  case,  its  range 
is  exaggerated.  In  the  same  way,  darkness  and  uncertainty 
always  increase  the  sense  of  danger.  And,  of  course,  if  we  have 
thought  over  the  possibility  of  misfortune,  we  have  also  at  the 
same  time  considered  the  sources  to  which  we  shall  look  for 
help  and  consolation  ;  or,  at  any  rate,  we  have  accustomed 
ourselves  to  the  idea  of  it. 

There  is  nothing  that  better  fits  us  to  endure  the  misfortunes 
of  life  with  composure,  than  to  know  for  certain  that  everything 
that  happens^'rom  the  smallest  up  to  the  greatest  fails  of  ex- 

'  Translator' s  Note . — Rev.  James  Beresford  (1764-1840),  miscellane- 
ous writer.  The  full  title  of  this,  his  chief  work,  is  "The  Miseries  of 
Human  Life  ;  or  the  last  groans  of  Timothy  Testy  and  Samuel  Sensi- 
tive, with  a  few  supplementary  sighs  from  Mrs.  Testy." 


WORLDLY    FORTUNE.  97 

istence — happens  of  necessity.^  A  man  soon  accommodates 
himself  to  the  inevitable — to  something  that  must  be  ;  and  if 
he  knows  that  nothing  can  happen  except  of  necessity,  he  will 
see  that  things  cannot  be  other  that  they  are,  and  that  even  the 
strangest  chances  in  the  world  are  just  as  much  a  product  of 
necessity  as  phenomena  which  obey  well-known  rules  and  turn 
out  exa6lly  in  accordance  with  expeftation.  Let  me  here  refer 
to  what  I  have  said  elsewhere  on  the  soothing  effedl  of  the 
knowledge  that  all  things  are  inevitable  and  a  produ<5l  of 
necessity." 

If  a  man  is  steeped  in  the  knowledge  of  this  truth,  he  will, 
first  of  all,  do  what  he  can,  and  then  readily  endure  what  he 
must. 

We  may  regard  the  petty  vexations  of  life  that  are  constant- 
ly happening,  as  designed  to  keep  us  in  practice  for  bearing 
great  misfortunes,  so  that  we  may  not  become  completely  en- 
ervated by  a  career  of  prosperity.  A  man  should  be  as  Sieg- 
fried, armed  cap-cL-pie,  towards  the  small  troubles  of  every  day 
— those  little  differences  we  have  with  our  fellow-men,  insignifi- 
cant disputes,  unbecoming  condu6t  in  other  people,  petty 
gossip,  and  many  other  similar  annoyances  of  life  ;  he  should 
not  feel  them  at  all,  much  less  take  them  to  heart  and  brood 
over  them,  but  hold  them  at  arm's  length  and  push  them  out 
of  his  way,  like  stones  that  lie  in  the  road,  and  upon  no  ac- 
count think  about  them  and  give  them  a  place  in  his  refledlions. 

Section  52.  What  people  commonly  call  Fate  is,  as  a  gener- 
al rule,  nothing  but  their  own  stupid  and  foolish  conduct. 
There  is  a  fine  passage  in  Homer,  ^  illustrating  the  truth  of  this 
remark,  where  the  poet  praises  fifiTLt, — shrewd  council ;  and  his 
advice  is  worthy  of  all  attention.  For  if  wickedness  is  atoned 
for  only  in  another  world,  stupidity  gets  its  reward  here — al- 
though, now  and  then,  mercy  may  be  shown  to  the  offender. 

'  This  is  a  truth  which  I  have  firmly  established  in  my  prize-essay 
on  the  Freedom,  of  the  Will,  where  the  reader  will  find  a  detailed  ex- 
planation of  the  grounds  on  which  it  rests.  Cf.  especially  p.  60. 
[Schopenhauer's  Works,  4th  Edit.,  vol.  iv. —  TV.] 

*Cf.  Weltals  Willeund  Vorstellung,  Bk.  I.  p.  361,  (4th  edit.) 

^//iW,  xxiii.  313,  sqq. 


98  COUNSELS  AND   MAXIMS. 

It  is  not  ferocity  but  cunning  that  strikes  fear  into  the  heart 
and  forebodes  danger  ;  so  true  it  is  that  the  human  brain  is  a 
more  terrible  weapon  than  the  Hon's  paw. 

The  most  finished  man  of  the  world  would  be  one  who  was 
never  irresolute  and  never  in  a  hurry. 

Section  53.  Courage  comes  next  to  prudence  as  a  quality 
of  mind  very  essential  to  happiness.  It  is  quite  true  that  no 
one  can  endow  himself  with  either,  since  a  man  inherits  pru- 
dence from  his  mother  and  courage  from  his  father  ;  still,  if  he 
has  these  qualities,  he  can  do  much  to  develop  them  by  means 
of  resolute  exercise. 

In  this  world,  where  the  game  is  played  with  loaded  dice,  a 
man  must  have  a  temper  of  iron,  with  armor  proof  to  the  blows 
of  fate,  and  weapons  to  make  his  way  against  men.  Life  is  one 
long  battle  ;  we  have  to  fight  at  every  step  ;  and  Voltaire  very 
rightly  says  that  if  we  succeed,  it  is  at  the  point  of  the  sword, 
and  that  we  die  with  the  weapon  in  our  hand — on  ne  riussit 
dans  ce  monde  qu'd  la  pointe  de  V  ^pi,  et  on  meurt  les  armes  d  la 
main.  It  is  a  cowardly  soul  that  shrinks  or  grows  faint  and 
despondent  as  soon  as  the  storm  begins  to  gather,  or  even 
when  the  first  cloud  appears  on  the  horizon.  Our  motto 
should  be  No  Surrender ;  and  far  from  yielding  to  the  ills  of 
life,  let  us  take  fresh  courage  from  misfortune  : — 

Tu  ne  cede  tnalis  sed  contra  audentior  ito.^ 

As  long  as  the  issue  of  any  matter  fraught  with  peril  is  still 
in  doubt,  and  there  is  yet  some  possibility  left  that  all  may 
come  right,  no  one  should  ever  tremble  or  think  of  anything 
but  resistance, — just  as  a  man  should  not  despair  of  the  weather 
if  he  can  see  a  bit  of  blue  sky  anywhere.  Let  our  attitude  be 
such  that  we  should  not  quake  even  if  the  world  fell  in  ruins 
about  us  : — 

Si  fraSlus  illabatur  orbis 
Impavidutn  ferient  ruincp* 

Our  whole  life  itself — let  alone  its  blessings — would  not  be 

worth  such  a  cowardly  trembling  and  shrinking  of  the  heart 

'  Virgil,  ./Eneid,  vi.,  95.  «  Horace,  Odes  ill.  3. 


WORLDLY    FORTUNE.  99 

Therefore,  let  us  face  life  courageously  and  show  a  firm  front 
to  every  ill  :  — 

Quocirca  vivite  fortes 
Fortiaque  adversis  opponite  peHora  rebus. 

Still,  it  is  possible  for  courage  to  be  carried  to  an  excess 
and  to  degenerate  into  rashness.  It  may  even  be  said  that 
some  amount  of  fear  is  necessary,  if  we  are  to  exist  at  all  in  the 
world,  and  cowardice  is  only  the  exaggerated  form  of  it.  This 
truth  has  been  very  well  expressed  by  Bacon,  in  his  account  of 
Terror  Panicus  ;  and  the  etymological  account  which  he  gives 
of  its  meaning,  is  very  superior  to  the  ancient  explanation  pre- 
served for  us  by  Plutarch.'  He  connects  the  expression  with 
Pan,  the  personification  of  Nature* ;  and  observes  that  fear  is 
innate  in  every  living  thing,  and,  in  fa6l,  tends  to  its  preserva- 
tion, but  that  it  is  apt  to  come  into  play  without  due  cause, 
and  that  man  is  especially  exposed  to  it.  The  chief  feature  of 
this  Panic  Terror  is  that  there  is  no  clear  notion  of  any  definite 
danger  bound  up  with  it  ;  that  it  presumes  rather  than  knows 
that  danger  exists  ;  and  that,  in  case  of  need,  it  pleads  fright 
itself  as  the  reason  for  being  afraid. 

'  De  hide  et  O stride,  ch.  14. 

•  De  Sapientia  Veterum,  C.  6.  Natura  enim  rerum  omnibus  viven- 
tibus  indidit  metum  ac  formidinem,  vitce  atque  essentia  sua  conserva- 
tricetn,  ac  mala  ingtuentia  vitantem.  et  depellentetn.  Verutntam.en 
eadem  natura  modum  tenere  nescia  est:  sed  timoribus  salutaribus 
semper  vanos  et  innanes  admiscet ;  adeo  ut  omnia  {si  intus  conspici 
darentur)  Panicis  terroribus  plenissima  sint  *>raesertim  humana. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    AGES    OF   LIFE. 

THERE  is  a  very  fine  saying  of  Voltaire's  to  the  effe6^  that 
every  age  of  life  has  its  own  peculiar  mental  chara6ler, 
and  that  a  man  will  feel  completely  unhappy  if  his  mind  is  not 
in  accordance  with  his  years  : — 

Qui  n'a pas  V esprit  de  son  age, 
De  son  dge  a  tout  le  malheur. 

It  will,  therefore,  be  a  fitting  close  to  our  speculations  upon  the 
nature  of  happiness,  if  we  glance  at  the  changes  which  the 
various  periods  of  life  produce  in  us. 

Our  whole  life  long  it  is  the  present,  and  the  present  alone, 
that  we  a6lually  possess  :  the  only  difference  is  that  at  the  be- 
ginning of  life  we  look  forward  to  a  long  future,  and  that  to- 
wards the  end  we  look  back  upon  a  long  past ;  also  that  our 
temperament,  but  not  our  chara(5ler,  undergoes  certain  well- 
known  changes,  which  make  the  present  wear  a  different  color 
at  each  period  of  life. 

I  have  elsewhere  stated  that  in  childhood  we  are  more  given 
to  using  our  intelleil  than  our  will ;  and  I  have  explained  why 
this  is  so.'  It  is  just  for  this  reason  that  the  first  quarter  of  life 
is  so  happy  :  as  we  look  back  upon  it  in  after  years,  it  seems 
a  sort  of  lost  paradise.  In  childhood  our  relations  with  others 
are  limited,  our  wants  are  few, — in  a  word,  there  is  little  stimu- 
lus for  the  will  ;  and  so  our  chief  concern  is  the  extension  of 
our  knowledge.     The  intelledl — like  the  brain,  which  attains 

•  Translator' s  Note. — Schopenhauer  refers  to  Die  Welt  als  Wille 
und  Vorstellung,  Bk.  II.  c.  31,  p.  451  (4th  edit.),  where  he  explains 
that  this  is  due  to  the  faA  that  at  that  period  of  life  the  brain  and  nerv- 
ous system  are  much  more  developed  than  any  other  part  of  the 
organism,  (ioo) 


THE   AGES   OF   LIFE,  lOI 

its  full  size  in  the  seventh  year/  is  developed  early,  though  it 
takes  time  to  mature  ;  and  it  explores  the  whole  world  of  its 
surroundings  in  its  constant  search  for  nutriment  :  it  is  then 
that  existence  is  in  itself  an  ever  fresh  delight,  and  all  things 
sparkle  with  the  charm  of  novelty. 

This  is  why  the  years  of  childhood  are  like  a  long  poem. 
For  the  fundion  of  poetry,  as  of  all  art,  is  to  grasp  the  Idea — 
in  the  Platonic  sense  ;  in  other  words,  to  apprehend  a  particu- 
lar obje6l  in  such  a  way  as  to  perceive  its  essential  nature,  the 
chara6teristics  it  has  in  common  with  all  other  objects  of  the 
same  kind  ;  so  that  a  single  obje6l  appears  as  the  representative 
of  a  class,  and  the  results  of  one  experience  hold  good  for  a 
thousand. 

It  may  be  thought  that  my  remarks  are  opposed  to  fa6t,  and 
that  the  child  is  never  occupied  with  anything  beyond  the  in- 
dividual obje6ls  or  events  which  are  presented  to  it  from  time 
to  time,  and  then  only  in  so  far  as  they  interest  and  excite  its 
will  for  the  moment  ;  but  this  is  not  really  the  case.  In  those 
early  years,  life — in  the  full  meaning  of  the  word,  is  something 
so  new  and  fresh,  and  its  sensations  are  so  keen  and  unblunted 
by  repetition,  that,  in  the  midst  of  all  its  pursuits  and  without 
any  clear  consciousness  of  what  it  is  doing,  the  child  is  always 
silently  occupied  in  grasping  the  nature  of  life  itself, — in  arriv- 
ing at  its  fundamental  chara6ler  and  general  outline  by  means 
of  separate  scenes  and  experiences  ;  or,  to  use  Spinoza's 
phraseology,  the  child  is  learning  to  see  the  things  and  persons 
about  it  sub  specie  aeternitatis, — as  particular  manifestations  of 
universal  law. 

The  younger  we  are,  then,  the  more  does  every  individual 
objeft  represent  for  us  the  whole  class  to  which  it  belongs  ;  but 
as  the  years  increase,  this  becomes  less  and  less  the  case. 
That  is  the  reason  why  youthful  impressions  are  so  different 

»  Translator' s  Note. — This  statement  is  not  quite  corre<5l.  The 
weight  of  the  brain  increases  rapidly  up  to  the  seventh  year,  more 
slowly  between  the  sixteenth  and  the  twentieth  year,  still  more  slow- 
ly till  between  thirty  and  forty  years  of  age,  when  it  attains  its  maxi- 
mum. At  each  decennial  period  after  this,  it  is  supposed  to  decrease 
in  weight  on  the  average,  an  ounce  for  every  ten  years. 


102  THE    AGES    OF    LIFE. 

from  those  of  old  age.  And  that  is  also  why  the  slight  knowl- 
edge and  experience  gained  in  childhood  and  youth  afterwards 
come  to  stand  as  the  permanent  rubric,  or  heading,  for  all  the 
knowledge  acquired  in  later  life, — those  early  forms  of  knowl- 
edge passing  into  categories,  as  it  were,  under  which  the  re- 
sults of  subsequent  experience  are  classified  ;  though  a  clear 
consciousness  of  what  is  being  done,  does  not  always  attend 
upon  the  process. 

In  this  way  the  earliest  years  of  a  man's  life  lay  the  founda- 
tion of  his  view  of  the  world,  whether  it  be  shallow  or  deep  ; 
and  although  this  view  may  be  extended  and  perfected  later 
on,  it  is  not  materially  altered.  It  is  an  effe6l  of  this  purely 
obje<5live  and  therefore  poetical  view  of  the  world, — essential 
to  the  period  of  childhood  and  promoted  by  the  as  yet  unde- 
veloped state  of  the  volitional  energy — that,  as  children,  we 
are  concerned  much  more  with  the  acquisition  of  pure  knowl- 
edge than  with  exercising  the  power  of  will.  Hence  that  grave, 
fixed  look  observable  in  so  many  children,  of  which  Raphael 
makes  such  a  happy  use  in  his  depiftion  of  cherubs,  especially 
in  the  pi(?ture  of  the  Sistine  Madonna.  The  years  of  childhood 
are  thus  rendered  so  full  of  bliss  that  the  memory  of  them  is 
always  coupled  with  longing  and  regret. 

While  we  thus  eagerly  apply  ourselves  to  learning  the  out- 
ward aspe6l  of  things,  as  the  primitive  method  of  understand- 
ing the  obje6ls  about  us,  education  aims  at  instilling  into  us 
ideas.  But  ideas  furnish  no  information  as  to  the  real  and  es- 
sential nature  of  objedls,  which,  as  the  foundation  and  true 
content  of  all  knowledge,  can  be  reached  only  by  the  process 
called  intuition.  This  is  a  kind  of  knowledge  which  can  in  no 
wise  be  instilled  into  us  from  without ;  we  must  arrive  at  it  by 
and  for  ourselves. 

Hence  a  man's  intelledtual  as  well  as  his  moral  qualities  pro- 
ceed from  the  depths  of  his  own  nature,  and  are  not  the  result 
of  external  influences  ;  and  no  educational  scheme — of  Pesta- 
lozzi,  or  of  any  one  else — can  turn  a  born  simpleton  into  a  man 
of  sense.  The  thing  is  impossible  !  He  was  born  a  simpleton, 
and  a  simpleton  he  will  die. 


THE  AGES   OF   LIFE.  IO5 

It  is  the  depth  and  intensity  of  this  early  intuitive  knowledge 
of  the  external  world  that  explain  why  the  experiences  of  child- 
hood take  such  a  firm  hold  on  the  memory.  When  we  were 
young,  we  were  completely  absorbed  in  our  immediate  sur- 
roundings ;  there  was  nothing  to  distraft  our  attention  from 
them  ;  we  looked  upon  the  objects  about  us  as  though  they 
were  the  only  ones  of  their  kind,  as  though,  indeed,  nothing 
else  existed  at  all.  Later  on,  when  we  come  to  find  out  how 
many  things  there  are  in  the  world,  this  primitive  state  of 
mind  vanishes,  and  with  it  our  patience. 

I  have  said  elsewhere  *  that  the  world,  considered  as  objeSl, 
— in  other  words,  as  it  '\^  presented  to  us  obje6lively, — wears  in 
general  a  pleasing  aspe6l ;  but  that  in  the  world,  considered 
as  subjeH, — that  is,  in  regard  to  its  inner  nature,  which  is  will, 
— pain  and  trouble  predominate.  I  may  be  allowed  to  express 
the  matter,  briefly,  thus  :  the  world  is  glorious  to  look  at,  btd 
dreadful  in  reality. 

Accordingly,  we  find  that,  in  the  years  of  childhood,  the 
world  is  much  better  known  to  us  on  its  outer  or  objedlive  side, 
namely,  as  the  presentation  of  will,  than  on  the  side  of  its  inner 
nature,  namely,  as  the  will  itself  Since  the  objedlive  side 
wears  a  pleasing  aspe6t,  and  the  inner  or  subje6tive  side,  with 
its  tale  of  horror,  remains  as  yet  Unknown,  the  youth,  as  his 
intelligence  develops,  takes  all  the  forms  of  beauty  that  he 
sees,  in  nature  and  in  art,  for  so  many  obje6ts  of  blissful  exist- 
ence ;  they  are  so  beautiful  to  the  outward  eye  that,  on  their 
inner  side,  they  must,  he  thinks,  be  much  more  beautiful  still. 
So  the  world  lies  before  him  like  another  Eden  ;  and  this  is 
the  Arcadia  in  which  we  are  all  born. 

A  little  later,  this  state  of  mind  gives  birth  to  a  thirst  for  real 
life — the  impulse  to  do  and  suffer — which  drives  a  man  forth 
into  the  hurly-burly  of  the  world.  There  he  learns  the  other 
side  of  existence — the  inner  side,  the  will,  which  is  thwarted  at 
every  step.     Then  comes  the  great  period  of  disillusion,    a 

^Die  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vorstellung,  Bk.  II.  c.  31,  p.  426-7  (4th 
Edit.),  to  which  the  reader  is  referred  for  a  detailed  explanation  of 
my  meaning. 


I04  THE   AGES    OF    LIFE. 

period  of  very  gradual  growth  ;  but  once  it  has  fairly  begun,  a 
man  will  tell  you  that  he  has  got  over  all  his  false  notions — 
r &ge  des  illusions  est passi ;  and  yet  the  process  is  only  be- 
ginning, and  it  goes  on  extending  its  sway  and  applying  more 
and  more  to  the  whole  of  life. 

So  it  may  be  said  that  in  childhood,  life  looks  like  the  scen- 
ery in  a  theatre,  as  you  view  it  from  a  distance  ;  and  that 
in  old  age  it  is  like  the  same  scenery  when  you  come  up  quite 
close  to  it. 

And,  lastly,  there  is  another  circumstance  that  contributes 
to  the  happiness  of  childhood.  As  spring  commences,  the 
young  leaves  on  the  trees  are  similar  in  color  and  much  the 
same  in  shape  ;  and  in  the  first  years  of  life  we  all  resemble 
one  another  and  harmonize  very  well.  But  with  puberty 
divergence  begins  ;  and,  like  the  radii  of  a  circle,  we  go  fur- 
ther and  further  apart. 

The  period  of  youth,  which  forms  the  remainder  of  this  ear- 
lier half  of  our  existence — and  how  many  advantages  it  has  over 
the  later  half ! — is  troubled  and  made  miserable  by  the  pursuit 
of  happiness,  as  though  there  were  no  doubt  that  it  can  be  met 
with  somewhere  in  life, — a  hope  that  always  ends  in  failure  and 
leads  to  discontent.  An  illusory  image  of  some  vague  future 
bliss — born  of  a  dream  and  shaped  by  fancy — floats  before  our 
eyes  ;  and  we  search  for  the  reality  in  vain.  So  it  is  that  the 
young  man  is  generally  dissatisfied  with  the  position  in  which 
he  finds  himself,  whatever  it  may  be  ;  he  ascribes  bis  disap- 
pointment solely  to  the  state  of  things  that  meets  him  on  his 
first  introdu6lion  to  life,  when  he  had  expeded  something  very 
different ;  whereas  it  is  only  the  vanity  and  wretchedness  of 
human  life  everywhere  that  he  is  now  for  the  first  time  ex- 
periencing. 

It  would  be  a  great  advantage  to  a  young  man  if  his  early 
training  could  eradicate  the  idea  that  the  world  has  a  great 
deal  to  offer  him.  But  the  usual  result  of  education  is  to 
strengthen  this  delusion  ;  and  our  first  ideas  of  life  are  general- 
ly taken  from  ficlion  rather  than  from  fa6l. 


THE   AGES  OF   LIFE.  I05 

In  the  bright  dawn  of  our  youthful  days,  the  poetry  of  life 
spreads  out  a  gorgeous  vision  before  us,  and  we  torture  our- 
selves by  longing  to  see  it  realized.  We  might  as  well  wish  to 
grasp  the  rainbow  !  The  youth  expe6ls  his  career  to  be  like 
an  interesting  romance  ;  and  there  lies  the  germ  of  that  disap- 
pointment which  I  have  been  describing.'  What  lends  a 
charm  to  all  these  visions  is  just  the  fadl  that  they  are  visionary 
and  not  real,  and  that  in  contemplating  them  we  are  in  the 
sphere  of  pure  knowledge,  which  is  sufficient  in  itself  and  free 
from  the  noise  anci  struggle  of  life.  To  try  and  realize  those 
visions  is  to  make  them  an  obje<5t  of  will — a  process  which 
always  involves  pain.* 

If  the  chief  feature  of  the  earlier  half  of  life  is  a  never-satisfied 
longing  after  happiness,  the  later  half  is  chara6lerized  by  the 
dread  of  misfortune.  For,  as  we  advance  in  years,  it  becomes 
in  a  greater  or  less  degree  clear  that  all  happiness  is  chimerical 
in  its  nature,  and  that  pain  alone  is  real.  Accordingly,  in  later 
years,  we,  or,  at  least,  the  more  prudent  amongst  us,  are  more 
intent  upon  eliminating  what  is  painful  from  our  lives  and  mak- 
ing our  position  secure,  than  on  the  pursuit  of  positive  pleasure. 
I  may  observe,  by  the  way,  that  in  old  age  we  are  better  able 
to  prevent  misfortunes  from  coming,  and  in  youth  better  able 
to  bear  them  when  they  come. 

In  my  young  days,  I  was  always  pleased  to  hear  a  ring  at 
my  door  :  ah  !  thought  I,  now  for  something  pleasant.  But 
in  later  life  my  feelings  on  such  occasions  were  rather  akin  to 
dismay  than  to  pleasure  :  heaven  help  me  !  thought  I,  what 
am  I  to  do  ?  A  similar  revulsion  of  feeling  in  regard  to  the 
world  of  men  takes  place  in  all  persons  of  any  talent  or  distinc- 
tion. For  that  very  reason  they  cannot  be  said  properly  to 
belong  to  the  world  ;  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  according  to 
the  extent  of  their  superiority,  they  stand  alone.  In  their 
youth  they  have  a  sense  of  being  abandoned  by  the  world  ; 
but  later  on,  they  feel  as  though  they  had  escaped  it.     The 

>Cf.  loc.  cit.,  p.  428. 

*  Let  me  refer  the  reader,  if  he  is  interested  in  the  subje<5l,  to  the 
volume  already  cited,  chapter  37. 


I06  THE   AGES   OF    LIFE. 

earlier  feeling  is  an  unpleasant  one,  and  rests  upon  ignorance  ; 
the  second  is  pleasurable — for  in  the  meantime  they  have  come 
to  know  what  the  world  is. 

The  consequence  of  this  is  that,  as  compared  with  the  earli- 
er, the  later  half  of  life,  like  the  second  part  of  a  musical 
period,  has  less  of  passionate  longing  and  more  restfulness 
about  it.  And  why  is  this  the  case  ?  Simply  because,  in 
youth,  a  man  fancies  that  there  is  a  prodigious  amount  of 
happiness  and  pleasure  to  be  had  in  the  world,  only  that  it  is 
difficult  to  come  by  it ;  whereas,  when  he  becomes  old,  he 
knows  that  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  he  makes  his  mind 
completely  at  ease  on  the  matter,  enjoys  the  present  hour  as 
well  as  he  can,  and  even  takes  a  pleasure  in  trifles. 

The  chief  result  gained  by  experience  of  life  is  clearness  of 
view.  This  is  what  distinguishes  the  man  of  mature  age,  and 
makes  the  world  wear  such  a  different  aspedl  from  that  which 
it  presented  in  his  youth  or  boyhood.  It  is  only  then  that  he 
sees  things  quite  plain,  and  takes  them  for  that  which  they 
really  are  :  while  in  earlier  years  he  saw  a  phantom-world,  put 
together  out  of  the  whims  and  crotchets  of  his  own  mind,  in- 
herited prejudice  and  strange  delusion  :  the  real  world  was 
hidden  from  him,  or  the  vision  of  it  distorted.  The  first  thing 
that  experience  finds  to  do  is  to  free  us  from  the  phantoms  of 
the  brain — those  false  notions  that  have  been  put  into  us  in 
youth. 

To  prevent  their  entrance  at  all  would,  of  course,  be  the  best 
form  of  education,  even  though  it  were  only  negative  in  aim  : 
but  it  would  be  a  task  full  of  difficulty.  At  first  the  child's 
horizon  would  have  to  be  limited  as  much  as  possible,  and  yet 
within  that  limited  sphere  none  but  clear  and  correal  notions 
would  have  to  be  given  ;  only  after  the  child  had  properly  ap- 
preciated everything  within  it,  might  the  sphere  be  gradually 
enlarged  ;  care  being  always  taken  that  nothing  was  left  ob- 
scure, or  half  or  wrongly  understood.  The  consequence  of 
this  training  would  be  that  the  child's  notions  of  men  and 
things  would  always  be  limited  and  simple  in  their  character  ; 
but,  one  the  other  hand,  they  would  be  clear  and  corred,  and 


THE   AGES   OF   LIFE.  IO7 

only  need  to  be  extended,  not  to  be  rectified.  The  same  line 
might  be  pursued  on  into  the  period  of  youth.  This  method 
of  education  would  lay  special  stress  upon  the  prohibition  of 
novel  reading  ;  and  the  place  of  novels  would  be  taken  by  suit- 
able biographical  literature — the  life  of  Franklin,  for  instance, 
or  Moritz'  Anion  Reiser} 

In  our  early  days  we  fancy  that  the  leading  events  in  our 
life,  and  the  persons  who  are  going  to  play  an  important  part  in 
it,  will  make  their  entrance  to  the  sound  of  drums  and  trumpets  ; 
but  when,  in  old  age.  we  look  back,  we  find  that  they  all  came 
in  quite  quietly,  slipped  in,  as  it  were,  by  the  side-door,  almost 
unnoticed. 

From  the  point  of  view  we  have  been  taking  up  until  now, 
life  may  be  compared  to  a  piece  of  embroidery,  of  which,  dur- 
ing the  first  half  of  his  time,  a  man  gets  a  sight  of  the  right 
side,  and  during  the  second  half,  of  the  wrong.  The  wrong 
side  is  not  so  pretty  as  the  right,  but  it  is  more  instru6live  ;  it 
shows  the  way  in  which  the  threads  have  been  worked  together. 

Intelle6^ual  superiority,  even  if  it  is  of  the  highest  kind,  will 
not  secure  for  a  man  a  preponderating  place  in  conversation 
until  after  he  is  forty  years  of  age.  For  age  and  experience, 
though  they  can  never  be  a  substitute  for  intelle6lual  talent, 
may  far  outweigh  it  ;  and  even  in  a  person  of  the  meanest  ca- 
pacity, they  give  a  certain  counterpoise  to  the  power  of  an  ex- 
tremely intellectual  man,  so  long  as  the  latter  is  young.  Of 
course  I  allude  here  to  personal  superiority,  not  to  the  place  a 
man  may  gain  by  his  works. 

And  on  passing  his  fortieth  year,  any  man  of  the  slightest 
power  of  mind — any  man,  that  is,  who  has  more  than  the  sorry 
share  of  intellect  with  which  Nature  has  endowed  five-sixths  of 
mankind — will  hardly  fail  to  show  some  trace  of  misanthropy. 
For,  as  is  natural,  he  has  by  that  time  inferred  other  people's 
charadler  from  an  examination  of  his  own  ;  with  the  result  that 
he  has  been  gradually  disappointed  to  find  that  in  the  qualitie.^ 

'  Translator' s  Note. — Moritz  was  a  miscellaneous  writer  of  the  last 
century  (1757-93).  His  Anton  Reiser,  composed  in  the  form  of  a 
novel,  is  prad;ically  an  autobiography. 


I08  THE   AGES   OF   LIFE. 

of  the  head  or  in  those  of  the  heart — and  usually  in  both — he 
reaches  a  level  to  which  they  do  not  attain  ;  so  he  gladly 
avoids  having  anything  more  to  do  with  them.  For  it  may  be 
said,  in  general,  that  every  man  will  love  or  hate  solitude — in 
other  words,  his  own  society — just  in  proportion  as  he  is  worth 
anything  in  himself.  Kant  has  some  remarks  upon  this  kind 
of  misanthropy  in  his  Critique  of  the  Faculty  of  Judgment.^ 

In  a  young  man,  it  is  a  bad  sign,  as  well  from  an  intelle6lual 
as  from  a  moral  point  of  view,  if  he  is  precocious  in  under- 
standing the  ways  of  the  world,  and  in  adapting  himself  to  its 
pursuits  ;  if  he  at  once  knows  how  to  deal  with  men,  and  enters 
upon  life,  as  it  were,  fully  prepared.  It  argues  a  vulgar  nature. 
On  the  other  hand,  to  be  surprised  and  astonished  at  the  way 
people  a6t,  and  to  be  clumsy  and  cross-grained  in  having  to  do 
with  them,  indicates  a  charatf^er  of  the  nobler  sort. 

The  cheerfulness  and  vivacity  of  youth  are  partly  due  to  the 
fadl  that,  when  we  are  ascending  the  hill  of  life,  death  is  not 
visible  :  it  lies  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  other  side.  But  once 
we  have  crossed  the  top  of  the  hill,  death  comes  in  view — 
death,  which,  until  then,  was  known  to  us  only  by  hearsay. 
This  makes  our  spirits  droop,  for  at  the  same  time  we  begin  to 
feel  that  our  vital  powers  are  on  the  ebb.  A  grave  seriousness 
now  takes  the  place  of  that  early  extravagance  of  spirit ;  and 
the  change  is  noticeable  even  in  the  expression  of  a  man's  face. 
As  long  as  we  are  young,  people  may  tell  us  what  they  please  ! 
we  look  upon  life  as  endless  and  use  our  time  recklessly  ;  but 
the  older  we  become,  the  more  we  pra6lice  economy.  For 
towards  the  close  of  life,  every  day  we  live  gives  us  the  same 
kind  of  sensation  as  the  criminal  experiences  at  every  step  on 
his  way  to  be  tried. 

From  the  standpoint  of  youth,  life  seems  to  stretch  away  in- 
to an  endless  future  ;  from  the  standpoint  of  old  age,  to  go 
back  but  a  littie  way  into  the  past ;  so  that,  at  the  beginning, 
life  presents  us  with  a  pi6lure  in  which  the  obje<5ls  appear  a 
great  way  off,  as  though  we  had  reversed  our  telescope  ;  while 
in  the  end  everything  seems  so  close.     To  see  how  short  life  is, 

'  Kritik  der  Urtheilskraft,  Part  I.,  \  29,  Note  ad  fin. 


THE   AGES   OF   LIFE.  IO9 

a  man   must  have  grown  old,  that  is  to  say,  he  must  have 
lived  long. 

On  the  other  hand,  as  the  years  increase,  things  look  small- 
er, one  and  all  ;  and  Life,  which  had  so  firm  and  stable  a  base 
in  the  days  of  our  youth,  now  seems  nothing  but  a  rapid  flight 
of  moments,  every  one  of  them  illusory  :  we  have  come  to  see 
that  the  whole  world  is  vanity  ! 

Time  itself  seems  to  go  at  a  much  slower  pace  when  we  are 
young  ;  so  that  not  only  is  the  first  quarter  of  life  the  happiest, 
it  is  also  the  longest  of  all  ;  it  leaves  more  memories  behind  it. 
If  a  man  were  put  to  it,  he  could  tell  you  more  out  of  the  first 
quarter  of  his  life  than  out  of  two  of  the  remaining  periods. 
Nay,  in  the  spring  of  life,  as  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  the  days 
reach  a  length  that  is  positively  tiresome  ;  but  in  the  autumn, 
whether  of  the  year  or  ol  life,  though  they  are  short,  they  are 
more  genial  and  uniform. 

But  why  is  it  that  to  an  old  man  his  past  life  appears  so  short  ? 
For  this  reason  :  his  memory  is  short  ;  and  so  he  fancies  that 
his  life  has  been  short  too.  He  no  longer  remembers  the  in- 
significant parts  of  it,  and  much  that  was  unpleasant  is  now 
forgotten  ;  how  little,  then,  there  is  left  !  For,  in  general,  a 
man's  memory  is  as  imperfe6l  as  his  intelle6t  ;  and  he  musf 
make  a  practice  of  refle6ting  upon  the  lessons  he  has  learned 
and  the  events  he  has  experienced,  if  he  does  not  want  them 
both  to  sink  gradually  into  the  gulf  of  oblivion.  Now,  we  are 
unaccustomed  to  refled  upon  matters  of  no  importance,  or,  as 
a  rule,  upon  things  that  we  have  found  disagreeable,  and  yet 
that  is  necessary  if  the  memory  of  them  is  to  be  preserved. 
But  the  class  of  things  that  may  be  called  insignificant  is  con- 
tinually receiving  fresh  additions  :  much  that  wears  an  air  of 
importance  at  first,  gradually  becomes  of  no  eonsequence  at  all 
from  the  fadl  of  its  frequent  repetition  ;  so  that  in  the  end  we 
a<5lually  lose  count  of  the  number  of  times  it  happens.  Hence 
we  are  better  able  to  remember  the  events  of  our  early  than  of 
our  later  years.  The  longer  we  live,  the  fewer  are  the  things 
that  we  can  call  important  or  significant  enough  to  deserve 
further  consideration,  and  by  this  alone  can  they  be  fixed  in 


no       ,  THE   AGES    OF   LIFE. 

the  memory  ;  in  other  words,  they  are  forgotten  as  soon  as 
they  are  past.  Thus  it  is  that  time  runs  on,  leaving  always 
fewer  traces  of  its  passage. 

Further,  if  disagreeable  things  have  happened  to  us,  we  do 
not  care  to  ruminate  upon  them,  least  of  all  when  they  touch 
our  vanity,  as  is  usually  the  case  ;  for  few  misfortunes  fall  up- 
on us  for  which  we  can  be  held  entirely  blameless.  So  people 
are  very  ready  to  forget  many  thing  that  are  disagreeable,  as 
well  as  many  that  are  unimportant. 

It  is  from  this  double  cause  that  our  memory  is  so  short ; 
and  a  man's  recolle6lion  of  what  has  happened  always  becomes 
proportionately  shorter,  the  more  things  that  have  occupied 
him  in  life.  The  things  we  did  in  years  gone  by,  the  events 
that  happened  long  ago,  are  like  those  obje6ls  on  the  coast 
which,  to  the  seafarer  on  his  outward  voyage,  become  smaller 
every  minute,  more  unrecognizable  and  harder  to  distinguish. 

Again,  it  sometimes  happens  that  memory  and  imagination 
will  call  up  some  long  past  scene  as  vividly  as  if  it  had  occur- 
red only  yesterday  ;  so  that  the  event  in  question  seems  to 
stand  very  near  to  the  present  time.  The  reason  of  this  is  that 
it  is  impossible  to  call  up  all  the  intervening  period  in  the  same 
vivid  way,  as  there  is  no  one  figure  pervading  it  which  can  be 
taken  in  at  a  glance  ;  and  besides,  most  of  the  things  that 
happened  in  that  period  are  forgotten,  and  all  that  remains  of 
it  is  the  general  knowledge  that  we  have  lived  through  it — a 
mere  notion  of  abstract  existence,  not  a  direct  vision  of  some 
particular  experience.  It  is  this  that  causes  some  single  event 
of  long  ago  to  appear  as  though  it  took  place  but  yesterday  : 
the  intervening  time  vanishes,  and  the  whole  of  life  looks  in- 
credibly short  Nay,  there  are  occasional  moments  in  old  age 
when  we  can  scarcely  believe  that  we  are  so  advanced  in  years, 
or  that  the  long  past  lying  behind  us  has  had  any  real  exist- 
ence— a  feeling  which  is  mainly  due  to  the  circumstance  that 
the  present  always  seems  fixed  and  immovable  as  we  look  at  it. 
These  and  similar  mental  phenomena  are  ultimately  to  be 
traced  to  the  fa6t  that  it  is  not  our  nature  in  itself,  but  only  the 
outward  presentation  of  it,  that  lies  in  time,  and  that  the  present 


THE    AGES   OF   LIFE.  Ill 

is  the  point  of  contaft  between  the  world  as  subje6l  and  the 
world  as  obje6l.' 

Again,  why  is  it  that  in  youth  we  can  see  no  end  to  the 
years  that  seem  to  lie  before  us  ?  Because  we  are  obliged  to 
find  room  for  all  the  things  we  hope  to  attain  in  life.  We 
cram  the  years  so  full  of  projedls  that  if  we  were  to  try  and 
carry  them  all  out,  death  would  come  prematurely  though  we 
reached  the  age  of  Methuselah. 

Another  reason  why  life  looks  so  long  when  we  are  young, 
is  that  we  are  apt  to  measure  its  length  by  the  few  years  we 
have  already  lived.  In  those  early  years  things  are  new  to  us, 
and  so  they  appear  important ;  we  dwell  upon  them  after  they 
have  happened  and  often  call  them  to  mind  ;  and  thus  in  youth 
life  seems  replete  with  incident,  and  therefore  of  long  duration. 

Sometimes  we  credit  ourselves  with  a  longing  to  be  in  some 
distant  spot,  whereas,  in  truth,  we  are  only  longing  to  have 
the  time  back  again  which  we  spent  there — days  when  we  were 
younger  and  fresher  than  we  are  now.  In  those  moments 
Time  mocks  us  by  wearing  the  mask  of  space  ;  and  if  we 
travel  to  the  spot,  we  can  see  how  much  we  have  been  deceived. 

There  are  two  ways  of  reaching  a  great  age,  both  of  which 
presuppose  a  sound  constitution  as  a  conditio  sine  qua  non. 
They  may  be  illustrated  by  two  lamps,  one  of  which  bums  a 
long  time  with  very  little  oil,  because  it  has  a  very  thin  wick  ; 
and  the  other  just  as  long,  though  it  has  a  very  thick  one,  be- 
cause there  is  plenty  of  oil  to  feed  it.  Here,  the  oil  is  the  vital 
energy,  and  the  difference  in  the  wick  is  the  manifold  way  in 
which  the  vital  energy  is  used. 

Up  to  our  thirty-sixth  year,  we  may  be  compared,  in  respect 
of  the  way  in  which  we  use  our  vital  energy,  to  people  who 
live  on  the  interest  of  their  money  :  what  they  spend  to-day, 

'  Translator's  Note. — By  this  remark  Schopenhauer  means  that  will, 
which,  as  he  argues,  forms  the  inner  reaUty  underlying  all  the  phe- 
nomena of  life  and  nature,  is  not  in  itself  affeded  by  time  ;  but  that, 
on  the  other  hand,  time  is  necessary  for  the  obj  edification  of  the  will, 
for  the  will  as  presented  in  the  passing  phenomena  of  the  world. 
Time  is  thus  definable  as  the  condition  of  change,  and  the  present 
time  as  the  only  point  of  contact  between  reality  and  appearance. 


112  THE  AGES  OF   LIFE. 

they  have  again  to-morrow.  But  from  the  age  of  thirty-six  on- 
wards, our  position  is  like  that  of  the  investor  who  begins  to 
entrench  upon  his  capital.  At  first  he  hardly  notices  any  dif- 
ference at  all,  as  the  greater  part  of  his  expenses  is  covered  by 
the  interest  of  his  securities  ;  and  if  the  deficit  is  but  slight,  he 
pays  no  attention  to  it.  But  the  deficit  goes  on  increasing,  un- 
til he  awakes  to  the  fa6t  that  it  is  becoming  more  serious  every 
day  :  his  position  becomes  less  and  less  secure,  and  he  feels 
himself  growing  poorer  and  poorer,  while  he  has  no  expe6la- 
tion  of  this  drain  upon  his  resources  coming  to  an  end.  His 
fall  from  wealth  to  poverty  becomes  faster  every  moment — like 
the  fall  of  a  solid  body  in  space,  until  at  last  he  has  absolutely 
nothing  left.  A  man  is  truly  in  a  woeful  plight  if  both  the 
terms  of  this  comparison — his  vital  energy  and  his  wealth — 
really  begin  to  melt  away  at  one  and  the  same  time.  It  is  the 
dread  of  this  calamity  that  makes  love  of  possession  increase 
with  age. 

On  the  other  hand,  at  the  beginning  of  life — in  the  years  be- 
fore we  attain  majority,  and  for  some  little  time  afterwards — 
the  state  of  our  vital  energy  puts  us  on  a  level  with  those  who 
each  year  lay  by  a  part  of  their  interest  and  add  it  to  their 
capital  :  in  other  words,  not  only  does  their  interest  come  in 
regularly,  but  the  capital  is  constantly  receiving  additions. 
This  happy  condition  of  affairs  is  sometimes  brought  about — 
with  health  as  with  money — under  the  watchful  care  of  some 
honest  guardian.     O  happy  youth,  and  sad  old  age  ! 

Nevertheless,  a  man  should  economize  his  strength  even 
when  he  is  young.  Aristotle*  observes  that  amongst  those 
who  were  vigors  at  Olympia  only  two  or  three  gained  a  prize 
at  two  different  periods,  once  in  boyhood  and  then  again  when 
they  came  to  be  men  ;  and  the  reason  of  this  was  that  the  pre- 
mature efforts  which  the  training  involved,  so  completely  ex- 
hausted their  powers  that  they  failed  to  last  on  into  manhood. 
As  this  is  true  of  muscular,  so  it  is  still  more  true  of  nervous 
energy,  of  which  all  intelledtual  achievements  are  the  manifest- 
ation.    Hence,  those  infant  prodigies — ingenia  praecocia — the 

Politics. 


THE   AGES   OF   LIFE.  IIJ 

fruit  of  a  hot-house  education,  who  surprise  us  by  their  clever- 
ness as  children,  afterwards  turn  out  very  ordinary  folk.  Nay, 
the  manner  in  which  boys  are  forced  into  an  early  acquaintance 
with  the  ancient  tongues  may,  perhaps,  be  to  blame  for  the 
dullness  and  lack  of  judgment  which  distinguish  so  many 
learned  persons. 

I  have  said  that  almost  every  man's  chara(5ter  seems  to  be 
specially  suited  to  some  one  period  of  life,  so  that  on  reaching 
it  the  man  is  at  his  best.  Some  people  are  charming  so  long 
as  they  are  young,  and  afterwards  there  is  nothing  attra<5live 
about  them  ;  others  are  vigorous  and  aftive  in  manhood,  and 
then  lose  all  the  value  they  possess  as  they  advance  in  years  ; 
many  appear  to  best  advantage  in  old  age,  when  their  chara6ler 
assumes  a  gentler  tone,  as  becomes  men  who  have  seen  the 
world  and  take  life  easily.  This  is  often  the  case  with  the 
French. 

This  peculiarity  must  be  due  to  the  fadl  that  the  man's  charac- 
ter has  something  in  it  akin  to  the  qualities  of  youth  or  man- 
hood or  old  age — something  which  accords  with  one  or  another 
of  these  periods  of  life,  or  perhaps  a6ts  as  a  corrective  to  its 
special  failings. 

The  mariner  observes  the  progress  he  makes  only  by  the 
way  in  ^^  hich  objedls  on  the  coast  fade  away  into  the  distance 
and  apparently  decrease  in  size.  In  the  same  way  a  man  be- 
comes conscious  that  he  is  advancing  in  years  when  he  finds 
that  people  older  than  himself  begin  to  seem  young  to  him. 

It  has  been  already  remarked  that  the  older  a  man  becomes, 
the  fewer  are  the  traces  left  in  his  mind  by  all  that  he  sees, 
does  or  experiences,  and  the  cause  of  this  has  been  explained. 
There  is  thus  a  sense  in  which  it  may  be  said  that  it  is  only  in 
youth  that  a  man  lives  with  a  full  degree  of  consciousness,  and 
that  he  is  only  half  alive  when  he  is  old.  As  the  years  advance, 
his  consciousness  of  what  goes  on  about  him  dwindles,  and  the 
things  of  life  hurry  by  without  making  any  impression  upon 
him,  just  as  none   is   made   by  a  work  of  art  seen  for   the 


114  THE    AGES   OF    LIFE. 

thousandth  time,     A  man  does  what  his  hand  finds  to  do,  and 
afterwards  he  does  not  know  whether  he  has  done  it  or  not. 

As  life  becomes  more  and  more  unconscious,  the  nearer  it 
approaches  the  point  at  which  all  consciousness  ceases,  the 
course  of  time  itself  seems  to  increase  in  rapidity.  In  child- 
hood all  the  things  and  circumstances  of  life  are  novel ;  and 
that  is  sufficient  to  awake  us  to  the  full  consciousness  of  exist- 
ence :  hence,  at  that  age,  the  day  seems  of  such  immense 
length.  The  same  thing  happens  when  we  are  traveling  :  one 
month  seems  longer  then  than  four  spent  at  home.  Still, 
though  time  seems  to  last  longer  when  we  are  young  or  on  a 
journey,  the  sense  of  novelty  does  not  prevent  it  from  now  and 
then  in  reality  hanging  heavily  upon  our  hands  under  both 
these  circumstances,  at  any  rate  more  than  is  the  case  when  we 
are  old  or  staying  at  home.  But  the  intelle6l  gradually  be- 
comes so  rubbed  down  and  blunted  by  long  habituation  to 
such  impressions  that  things  have  a  constant  tendency  to  pro- 
duce less  and  less  impression  upon  us  as  they  pass  by  ;  and 
this  makes  time  seem  increasingly  less  important,  and  there- 
fore shorter  in  duration  :  the  hours  of  the  boy  are  longer  than 
the  days  of  the  old  man.  Accordingly,  time  goes  faster  and 
faster  the  longer  we  live,  like  a  ball  rolling  down  a  hill.  Or, 
to  take  another  example  :  as  in  a  revolving  disc,  the  further  a 
point  lies  from  the  centre,  the  more  rapid  is  its  rate  of  pro- 
gression, so  it  is  in  the  wheel  of  life  ;  the  further  you  stand 
from  the  beginning,  the  faster  time  moves  for  you.  Hence  it 
may  be  said  that  as  far  as  concerns  the  immediate  sensation 
that  time  makes  upon  our  minds,  the  length  of  any  given  year 
is  in  dire6l  proportion  to  the  number  of  times  it  will  divide  our 
whole  life  :  for  instance,  at  the  age  of  fifty  the  year  appears  to 
us  only  one-tenth  as  long  at  it  did  at  the  age  of  five. 

This  variation  in  the  rate  at  which  time  appears  to  move, 
exercises  a  most  decided  influence  upon  the  whole  nature  of 
our  existence  at  every  period  of  it.  First  of  all,  it  causes 
childhood — even  though  it  embrace  only  a  span  of  fifteen  years 
— to  seem  the  longest  period  of  life,  and  therefore  the  richest 
in  reminiscences.     Next,  it  brings  it  about  that  a  man  is  apt  to 


THE   AGES   OF   LIFE.  II5 

be  bored  just  in  proportion  as  he  is  young.  Consider,  for  in- 
stance, that  constant  need  of  occupation — whether  it  is  work  or 
play — that  is  shown  by  children  :  if  they  come  to  an  end  of 
both  work  and  play,  a  terrible  feeling  of  boredom  ensues. 
Even  in  youth  people  are  by  no  means  free  from  this  tendency, 
and  dread  the  hours  when  they  have  nothing  to  do.  As  man- 
hood approaches,  boredom  disappears  ;  and  old  men  find  the 
time  too  short  when  their  days  fly  past  them  like  arrows  from 
a  bow.  Of  course,  I  must  be  understood  to  speak  of  men,  not 
of  decrepit  brutes.  With  this  increased  rapidity  of  time,  bore- 
dom mostly  passes  away  as  we  advance  in  life  ;  and  as  the 
passions  with  all  their  attendant  pain  are  then  laid  asleep,  the 
burden  of  life  is,  on  the  whole,  appreciably  lighter  in  later 
years  than  in  youth,  provided,  of  course,  that  health  remains. 
So  it  is  that  the  period  immediately  preceding  the  weakness 
and  troubles  of  old  age,  receives  the  name  of  a  man's  best  years. 

That  may  be  a  true  appellation,  in  view  of  the  comfortable 
feeling  which  those  years  bring  ;  but  for  all  that  the  years  of 
youth,  when  our  consciousness  is  lively  and  open  to  every  sort 
of  impression,  have  this  privilege — that  then  the  seeds  are 
sown  and  the  buds  come  forth  ;  it  is  the  springtime  of  the 
mind.  Deep  truths  may  be  perceived,  but  can  never  be  ex- 
cogitated— that  is  to  say,  the  first  knowledge  of  them  is  im- 
mediate, called  forth  by  some  momentary  impression.  This 
knowledge  is  of  such  a  kind  as  to  be  attainable  only  when  the 
impressions  are  strong,  lively  and  deep  ;  and  if  we  are  to  oe 
acquainted  with  deep  truths,  everything  depends  upon  a 
proper  use  of  our  early  years.  In  later  life,  we  may  be  better 
able  to  work  upon  other  people,  — upon  the  world,  because  our 
natures  are  then  finished  and  rounded  off,  and  no  more  a  prey 
to  fresh  views  ;  but  then  the  world  is  less  able  to  work  upon 
us.  These  are  the  years  of  adlion  and  achievement ;  while 
youth  is  the  time  for  forming  fundamental  conceptions,  and 
laying  down  the  gound-work  of  thought. 

In  youth  it  is  the  outward  aspe6l  of  things  that  most  engages 
us  ;  while  in  age,  thought  or  refledlion  is  the  predominating 
quality  of  the  mind.     Hence,  youth  is  the  time  for  poetry,  and 


Il6  THE    AGES   OF    LIFE. 

age  is  more  inclined  to  philosophy.  In  pradlical  affairs  it  is 
the  same  :  a  man  shapes  his  resolutions  in  youth  more  by  the 
impression  that  the  outward  world  makes  upon  him  ;  whereas, 
when  he  is  old,  it  is  thought  that  determines  his  actions.  This 
is  partly  to  be  explained  by  the  fadl  that  it  is  only  when  a  man 
is  old  that  the  results  of  outward  observation  are  present  in 
sufficient  numbers  to  allow  of  their  being  classified  according 
to  the  ideas  they  represent, — a  process  which  in  its  turn  causes 
those  ideas  to  be  more  fully  understood  in  all  their  bearings, 
and  the  exaS.  value  and  amount  of  trust  to  be  placed  in  them, 
fixed  and  determined  ;  while  at  the  same  time  he  has  grown 
accustomed  to  the  impressions  produced  by  the  various  phe- 
nomena of  life,  and  their  effeds  on  him  are  no  longer  what 
they  were. 

Contrarily,  in  youth,  the  impressions  that  things  make,  that 
is  to  say,  the  outward  aspe6ls  of  life,  are  so  overpoweringly 
strong,  especially  in  the  case  of  people  of  lively  and  imagina- 
tive disposition,  that  they  view  the  world  like  a  pidlure  ;  and 
their  chief  concern  is  the  figure  they  cut  in  it,  the  appearance 
they  present  ;  nay,  they  are  unaware  of  the  extent  to  which 
this  is  the  case.  It  is  a  quality  of  mind  that  shows  itself — if  in 
no  other  way — in  that  personal  vanity,  and  that  love  of  fine 
clothes,  which  distinguish  young  people. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  intellectual  powers  are  most 
capable  of  enduring  great  and  sustained  efforts  in  youth,  up  to 
the  age  of  thirty-five  at  latest  ;  from  which  period  their 
strength  begins  to  decline,  though  very  gradually.  Still,  the 
later  years  of  life,  and  even  old  age  itself,  are  not  without  their 
intellectual  compensation.  It  is  only  then  that  a  man  can  be 
said  to  be  really  rich  in  experience  or  in  learning  ;  he  has  then 
had  time  and  opportunity  enough  to  enable  him  to  see  and 
think  over  life  from  all  its  sides  ;  he  has  been  able  to  compare 
one  thing  with  another,  and  to  discover  points  of  contadl  and 
connefting  links,  so  that  only  then  are  the  true  relations  of 
things  rightly  understood.  Further,  in  old  age  there  comes 
an  increased  depth  in  the  knowledge  that  was  acquired  in 
youth  ;  a  man  has  now  many  more  illustrations  of  any  ideas 


THE   AGES   OF   LIFE.  II7 

he  may  have  attained  ;  things  which  he  thought  he  knew  when 
he  was  young,  he  now  knows  in  reality.  And  besides,  his 
range  of  knowledge  is  wider  ;  and  in  whatever  diredtion  it  ex- 
tends, it  is  thorough,  and  therefore  formed  into  a  consistent 
and  connefted  whole  ;  whereas  in  youth  knowledge  is  always 
defe6live  and  fragmentary. 

A  complete  and  adequate  notion  of  life  can  never  be  attained 
by  any  one  who  does  not  reach  old  age  ;  for  it  is  only  the  old 
man  who  sees  life  whole  and  knows  its  natural  course  ;  it  is 
only  he  who  is  acquainted — and  this  is  most  important — not 
only  with  its  entrance,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  but  with  its 
exit  too  ;  so  that  he  alone  has  a  full  sense  of  its  utter  vanity  ; 
whilst  the  others  never  cease  to  labor  under  the  false  notion 
that  everything  will  come  right  in  the  end. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  more  conceptive  power  in  youth, 
and  at  that  time  of  life  a  man  can  make  more  out  of  the  little 
that  he  knows.  In  age,  judgment,  penetration  and  thorough- 
ness predominate.  Youth  is  the  time  for  amassing  the  material 
for  a  knowledge  of  the  world  that  shall  be  distincftive  and 
peculiar, — for  an  original  view  of  life,  in  other  words,  the  lega- 
cy that  a  man  of  genius  leaves  to  his  fellow-men  ;  it  is,  how- 
ever, only  in  later  years  that  he  becomes  master  of  his  material. 
Accordingly  it  will  be  found  that,  as  a  rule,  a'  great  writer 
gives  his  best  work  to  the  world  when  he  is  about  fifty  years 
of  age.  But  though  the  tree  of  knowledge  must  reach  its  full 
height  before  it  can  bear  fruit,  the  roots  of  it  lie  in  youth. 

Every  generation,  no  matter  how  paltry  its  charadler,  thinks 
itself  much  wiser  than  the  one  immediately  preceding  it,  let 
alone  those  that  are  more  remote.  It  is  just  the  same  with  the 
different  periods  in  a  man's  hfe  ;  and  yet  often,  in  the  one  case 
no  less  than  in  the  other,  it  is  a  mistaken  opinion.  In  the 
years  of  physical  growth,  when  our  powers  of  mind  and  our 
stores  of  knowledge  are  receiving  daily  additions,  it  becomes  a 
habit  for  to-day  to  look  down  with  contempt  upon  yesterday. 
The  habit  strikes  root,  and  remains  even  after  the  intellectual 
powers  have  begun  to  decline, — when  to-day  should  rather 
look  up  with  respect  to  yesterday.     So  it  is  that  we  often  un- 


H8  THE   AGES   OF   LIFE. 

duly  depreciate  the  achievements  as  well  as  the  judgments  of 
our  youth. 

This  seems  the  place  for  making  the  general  observation, 
that,  although  in  its  main  qualities  a  man's  intelleSl  or  head,  as 
well  as  his  charafler  or  heart,  is  innate,  yet  the  former  is  by 
no  means  so  unalterable  in  its  nature  as  the  latter.  The  fadi  is 
that  the  intellect  is  subje6l  to  very  many  transformations, 
which,  as  a  rule,  do  not  fail  to  make  their  adlual  appearance  ; 
and  this  is  so,  partly  because  the  intelle6l  has  a  deep  founda- 
tion in  the  physique,  and  partly  because  the  material  with 
which  it  deals  is  given  in  experience.  And  so,  from  a  physical 
point  of  view,  we  find  that  if  a  man  has  any  peculiar  power,  it 
first  gradually  increases  in  strength  until  it  reaches  its  acme, 
after  which  it  enters  upon  a  path  of  slow  decadence,  until  it 
ends  in  imbecility.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  we  must  not  lose 
sight  of  the  fa6t  that  the  material  which  gives  employment  to 
a  man's  powers  and  keeps  them  in  activity, — the  subje6l-matter 
of  thought  and  knowledge,  experience,  intelle6lual  attainments, 
the  practice  of  seeing  to  the  bottom  of  things,  and  so  a  perfect 
mental  vision,  form  in  themselves  a  mass  which  continues  to 
increase  in  size,  until  the  time  comes  when  weakness  shows  it- 
self, and  the  man's  powers  suddenly  fail.  The  way  in  which 
these  two  distinguishable  elements  combine  in  the  same  nature, 
— the  one  absolutely  unalterable,  and  the  other  subje6l  to 
change  in  two  diredlions  opposed  to  each  other — explains  the 
variety  of  mental  attitude  and  the  dissimilarity  of  value  which 
attach  to  a  man  at  different  periods  of  life. 

The  same  truth  may  be  more  broadly  expressed  by  saying 
that  the  first  forty  years  of  life  furnish  the  text,  while  the  re- 
maining thirty  supply  the  commentary  ;  and  that  without  the 
commentary  we  are  unable  to  understand  aright  the  true  sense 
and  coherence  of  the  text,  together  with  the  moral  it  contains 
and  all  the  subtle  application  of  which  it  admits. 

Towards  the  close  of  life,  much  the  same  thing  happens  as 
at  the  end  of  a  bal  masqu^ — the  masks  are  taken  off.  Then 
you  can  see  who  the  people  really  are,  with  whom  you  have 
come  into  contadi  in  your  passage  through  the  world.    For  by 


THE   AGES   OF   LIFE.  II9 

the  end  of  life  chara<Slers  have  come  out  in  their  true  light, 
actions  have  borne  fruit,  achievements  have  been  rightly  ap- 
preciated, and  all  shams  have  fallen  to  pieces.  For  this,  Time 
was  in  every  case  requisite. 

But  the  most  curious  fa6l  is  that  it  is  also  only  towards  the 
close  of  life  that  a  man  really  recognizes  and  understands  his 
own  true  self, — the  aims  and  objedls  he  has  followed  in  life, 
more  especially  the  kind  of  relation  in  which  he  has  stood  to 
other  people  and  to  the  world.  It  will  often  happen  that  as  a 
result  of  this  knowledge,  a  man  will  have  to  assign  himself  a 
lower  place  than  he  formerly  thought  was  his  due.  But  there 
are  exceptions  to  this  rule  ;  and  it  will  occasionally  be  the  case 
that  he  will  take  a  higher  position  than  he  had  before.  This 
will  be  owing  to  the  fa6l  that  he  had  no  adequate  notion  of  the 
baseness  of  the  world,  and  that  he  set  up  a  Righer  aim  for  him- 
self than  was  followed  by  the  rest  of  mankind. 

The  progress  of  life  shows  a  man  the  stuff  of  which  he 
is  made. 

It  is  customary  to  call  youth  the  happy,  and  age  the  sad 
part  of  life.  This  would  be  true  if  it  were  the  passions  that 
made  a  man  happy.  Youth  is  swayed  to  and  fro  by  them  ;  and 
they  give  a  great  deal  of  pain  and  little  pleasure.  In  age  the 
passions  cool  and  leave  a  man  at  rest,  and  then  forthwith  his 
mind  takes  a  contemplative  tone  ;  the  intelled  is  set  free  and 
attains  the  upper  hand.  And  since,  in  itself,  intellect  is  be- 
yond the  range  of  pain,  and  man  feels  happy  just  in  so  far  as 
his  intellect  is  the  predominating  part  of  him. 

It  need  only  be  remembered  that  all  pleasure  is  negative, 
and  that  pain  is  positive  in  its  nature,  in  order  to  see  that  the 
passions  can  never  be  a  source  of  happiness,  and  that  age  is 
not  the  less  to  be  envied  on  the  ground  that  many  pleasures 
are  denied  it.  For  every  sort  of  pleasure  is  never  anything 
more  than  the  quietive  of  some  need  or  longing  ;  and  that 
pleasure  should  come  to  an  end  as  soon  as  the  need  ceases,  is 
no  more  a  subje6l  of  complaint  than  that  a  man  cannot  go  on 
eating  after  he  has  had  his  dinner,  or  fall  asleep  again  after  a 
good  night's  rest. 


I20  THE   AGES   OF   LIFE. 

So  far  from  youth  being  the  happiest  period  of  life,  there  is 
much  more  truth  in  the  remark  made  by  Plato,  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Republic,  that  the  prize  should  rather  be  given  to 
old  age,  because  then  at  last  a  man  is  freed  from  the  animal 
passion  which  has  hitherto  never  ceased  to  disquiet  him  Nay, 
it  may  even  be  said  that  the  countless  and  manifold  humors 
which  have  their  source  in  this  passion,  and  the  emotions  that 
spring  from  it,  produce  a  mild  state  of  madness  ;  and  this  lasts 
as  long  as  the  man  is  subjedl  to  the  spell  of  the  impulse — this 
evil  spirit,  as  it  were,  of  which  there  is  no  riddance — so  that  he 
never  really  becomes  a  reasonable  being  until  the  passion  is 
extinguished. 

There  is  no  doubt  that,  in  general,  and  apart  from  individual 
circumstances  and  particular  dispositions,  youth  is  marked  by 
a  certain  melancholy  and  sadness,  while  genial  sentiments 
attach  to  old  age  ;  and  the  reason  of  this  is  nothing  but  the 
fa6l  that  the  young  man  is  still  under  the  service,  nay,  the 
forced  labor,  imposed  by  that  evil  spirit,  which  scarcely  ever 
leaves  him  a  moment  to  himself  To  this  source  may  be 
traced,  dire6lly  or  indire<5lly,  almost  all  and  every  ill  that  be- 
falls or  menaces  mankind.  The  old  man  is  genial  and  cheer- 
ful because,  after  long  lying  in  the  bonds  of  passion,  he  can 
now  move  about  in  freedom. 

Still,  it  should  not  be  forgotten  that,  when  this  passion  is 
extinguished,  the  true  kernel  of  life  is  gone,  and  nothing  re- 
mains but  the  hollow  shell  ;  or,  from  another  point  of  view, 
life  then  becomes  like  a  comedy,  which,  begun  by  real  a6tors, 
is  continued  and  brought  to  an  end  by  automata  dressed  in 
their  clothes. 

However  that  may  be,  youth  is  the  period  of  unrest,  and  age 
of  repose  ;  and  from  that  very  circumstance,  the  relative  degree 
of  pleasure  belonging  to  each  may  be  inferred.  The  child 
stretches  out  its  little  hands  in  the  eager  desire  to  seize  all  the 
pretty  things  that  meet  its  sight,  charmed  by  the  world  be- 
cause all  its  senses  are  still  so  young  and  fresh.  Much  the 
same  thing  happens  with  the  youth,  and  he  displays  greater 
energy  in  his  quest.     He,  too,  is  charmed  by  all  the  pretty 


THE  AGES  OF  LIFE.  121 

things  and  the  many  pleasing  shapes  that  surround  him  ;  and 
forthwith  his  imagination  conjures  up  pleasures  which  the 
world  can  never  realize.  So  he  is  filled  with  an  ardent  desire 
for  he  knows  not  what  delights — robbing  him  of  all  rest  and 
making  happiness  impossible.  But  when  old  age  is  reached, 
all  this  is  over  and  done  with,  partly  because  the  blood  runs 
cooler  and  the  senses  are  no  longer  so  easily  allured  ;  partly 
because  experience  has  shown  the  true  value  of  things  and  the 
futility  of  pleasure,  whereby  illusion  has  been  gradually  dis- 
pelled, and  the  strange  fancies  and  prejudices  which  previous- 
ly concealed  or  distorted  a  free  and  true  view  of  the  world, 
have  been  dissipated  and  put  to  flight ;  with  the  result  that  a 
man  can  now  get  a  juster  and  clearer  view,  and  see  things  as 
they  are,  and  also  in  a  measure  attain  more  or  less  insight  into 
the  nullity  of  all  things  on  this  earth. 

It  is  this  that  gives  almost  every  old  man,  no  matter  how 
ordinary  his  faculties  may  be,  a  certain  tindture  of  wisdom, 
which  distinguishes  him  from  the  young.  But  the  chief  result 
of  all  this  change  is  the  peace  of  mind  that  ensues — a  great 
element  in  happiness,  and,  in  fa6l,  the  condition  and  essence 
of  it.  While  the  young  man  fancies  that  there  is  a  vast 
amount  of  good  things  in  the  world,  if  he  could  only  come  at 
them,  the  old  man  is  steeped  in  the  truth  of  the  Preacher's 
words,  that  all  things  are  vanity — knowing  that,  however 
gilded  the  shell,  the  nut  is  hollow. 

In  these  later  years,  and  not  before,  a  man  comes  to  a  true 
appreciation  of  Horace's  maxim  :  Nil  admirari.  He  is  diredt- 
ly  and  sincerely  convinced  of  the  vanity  of  everything  and  that 
all  the  glories  of  the  world  are  as  nothing  :  his  illusions  are 
gone.  He  is  no  more  beset  with  the  idea  that  there  is  any 
particular  amount  of  happiness  anywhere,  in  the  palace  or  in 
the  cottage,  any  more  than  he  h'mself  enjoys  when  he  is  free 
from  bodily  or  mental  pain.  The  worldly  distindions  of  great 
and  small,  high  and  low,  exist  for  him  no  longer  ;  and  in  this 
bUssful  state  of  mind  the  old  man  may  look  down  with  a  smile 
upon  all  false  notions.     He  is  completely  undeceived,  and 


122  THE   AGES  OF   LIFE. 

knows  that  whatever  may  be  done  to  adorn  human  life  and 
deck  it  out  in  finery,  its  paltry  character  will  soon  show 
through  the  glitter  of  its  surroundings  ;  and  that,  paint  and 
bejewel  it  as  one  may,  it  remains  everywhere  much  the  same, 
— an  existence  which  has  no  true  value  except  in  freedom  from 
pain,  and  is  never  to  be  estimated  by  the  presence  of  pleasure^ 
let  alone,  then,  of  display.* 

Disillusion  is  the  chief  chara6leristic  of  old  age  ;  for  by  that 
time  the  fi6^ions  are  gone  which  gave  life  its  charm  and  spur- 
red on  the  mind  to  adivity  ;  the  splendors  of  the  world  have 
been  proved  null  and  vain  ;  its  pomp,  grandeur  and  magnifi- 
cence are  faded.  A  man  has  then  found  out  that  behind  most 
ol  the  things  he  wants,  and  most  of  the  pleasures  he  longs  for, 
there  is  very  little  after  all  ;  and  so  he  comes  by  degrees  to  see 
that  our  existence  is  all  empty  and  void.  It  is  only  when  he 
is  seventy  years  old  that  he  quite  understands  the  first  words 
ol  the  Preacher  ;  and  this  again  explains  why  it  is  that  old  men 
are  sometimes  fretful  and  morose. 

It  is  often  said  that  the  common  lot  of  old  age  is  disease  and 
weariness  of  life.  Disease  is  by  no  means  essential  to  old  age  ; 
especially  where  a  really  long  span  of  years  is  to  be  attained  ; 
for  as  life  goes  on,  the  conditions  of  health  and  disorder  tend 
to  increase — crescente  vita,  crescit  sanifas  et  morbus.  And  as 
far  as  weariness  or  boredom  is  concerned,  I  have  stated  above 
why  old  age  is  even  less  exposed  to  that  form  of  evil  than 
youth.  Nor  is  boredom  by  any  means  to  be  taken  as  a  neces- 
sary accompaniment  of  that  solitude,  which,  for  reasons  that 
do  not  require  to  be  explained,  old  age  certainly  cannot 
escape  ;  it  is  rather  the  fate  that  awaits  those  who  have  never 
known  any  other  pleasures  but  the  gratification  of  the  senses 
and  the  delights  of  society — who  have  left  their  minds  unen- 
lightened and  their  faculties  unused.  It  is  quite  true  that  the 
intelle6lual  faculties  decline  with  the  approach  of  old  age  ;  but 
where  they  were  originally  strong,  there  will  always  be  enough 
left  to  combat  the  onslaught  of  boredom.  And  then  again,  as. 
I  have  said,  experience,  knowledge,  refledlion,  and  skill  in. 
'  Cf.  Horace,  Epist.  I.  12,  1-4. 


THE   AGES   OF   LIFE.  1 23 

dealing  with  men,  combine  to  give  an  old  man  an  increasingly 
accurate  insight  into  the  ways  of  the  world  ;  his  judgment  be- 
comes keen  and  he  attains  a  coherent  view  of  life  :  his  mental 
vision  embraces  a  wider  range.  Constantly  finding  new  uses  for 
his  stores  of  knowledge  and  adding  to  them  at  every  oppor- 
tunity, he  maintains  uninterrupted  that  inward  process  of  self- 
education  which  gives  employment  and  satisfaction  to  the 
mind,  and  thus  forms  the  due  reward  of  all  its  efforts. 

All  this  serves  in  some  measure  as  a  compensation  for  de- 
creased intelle6tual  power.  And  besides,  Time,  as  I  have  re- 
marked, seems  to  go  much  more  quickly  when  we  are  advanc- 
ed in  years  ;  and  this  is  in  itself  a  preventive  of  boredom. 
There  is  no  great  harm  in  the  faft  that  a  man's  bodily  strength 
decreases  in  old  age,  unless,  indeed,  he  requires  it  to  make  a 
living.  To  be  poor  when  one  is  old,  is  a  great  misfortune. 
If  a  man  is  secure  from  that,  and  retains  his  health,  old  age 
may  be  a  very  passable  time  of  life.  Its  chief  necessity  is  to  be 
comfortable  and  well  off;  and,  in  consequence,  money  is  then 
prized  more  than  ever,  because  it  is  a  substitute  for  failing 
strength.  Deserted  by  Venus,  the  old  man  likes  to  turn  to 
Bacchus  to  make  him  merry.  In  the  place  of  wanting  to  see 
things,  to  travel  and  learn,  comes  the  desire  to  speak  and 
teach.  It  is  a  piece  of  good  fortune  if  the  old  man  retains 
some  of  his  love  of  study  or  of  music  or  of  the  theatre, — if,  in 
general,  he  is  still  somewhat  susceptible  to  the  things  about 
him  ;  as  is,  indeed,  the  case  with  some  people  to  a  very  late 
age.  At  that  time  of  life,  what  a  man  has  in  himself  is  of 
greater  advantage  to  him  than  ever  it  was  before. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  most  people  who  have  never 
been  anything  but  dull  and  stupid,  become  more  and  more  of 
automata  as  they  grow  old.  They  have  always  thought,  said 
and  done  the  same  things  as  their  neighbors ;  and  nothing 
that  happens  now  can  change  their  disposition,  or  make  them 
a6l  otherwise.  To  talk  to  old  people  of  this  kind  is  like  writ- 
ing on  the  sand  ;  if  you  produce  any  impression  at  all,  it  is 
gone  almost  immediately  ;  old  age  is  here  nothing  but  the 
caput  mortuum  of  life — all  that  is  essential  to  manhood  is  gone. 


124  THE  AGES   OF   LIFE. 

There  are  cases  in  which  nature  suppHes  a  third  set  of  teeth  in 
old  age,  thereby  apparently  demonstrating  the  fa6l  that  that 
period  of  life  is  a  second  childhood. 

It  is  certainly  a  very  melancholy  thing  that  all  a  man's 
faculties  tend  to  waste  away  as  he  grows  old,  and  at  a  rate 
that  increases  in  rapidity  :  but  still,  this  is  a  necessary,  nay,  a 
beneficial  arrangement,  as  otherwise  death,  for  which  it  is  a 
preparation,  would  be  too  hard  to  bear.  So  the  greatest  boon 
that  follows  the  attainment  of  extreme  old  age  is  euthanasia, — 
an  easy  death,  not  ushered  in  by  disease,  and  free  from  all  pain 
and  struggle.*  For  let  a  man  live  as  long  as  he  may,  he  is 
never  conscious  of  any  moment  but  the  present,  one  and  indi- 
visible ;  and  in  those  late  years  the  mind  loses  more  every  day 
by  sheer  forgetfulness  than  ever  it  gains  anew. 

The  main  difference  between  youth  and  age  will  always  be 

that  youth  looks  forward  to  life,  and  old  age  to  death  ;  and 

that  while  the  one  has  a  short  past  and  a  long  future  before  it, 

the  case  is  just  the  opposite  with  the  other.     It  is  quite  true 

that  when  a  man  is  old,  to  die  is  the  only  thing  that  awaits 

him  ;  while  if  he  is  young,  he  may  expe6^  to  live  ;   and  the 

question  arises  which  of  the  two  fates  is  the  more  hazardous, 

and  if  life  is  not  a  matter  which,  on  the  whole,  it  is  better  to 

have  behind  one  than  before  ?     Does  not  the  Preacher  say  : 

the  day  of  death  \is  better]  than  the  day  of  one's  birth ^    It 

is  certainly  a  rash  thing  to  wish  for  long  life^  ;  for  as  the  Span- 

'  See  Die  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vorstellung,  Bk.  II.  ch.  41,  for  a  fur- 
ther description  of  this  happy  end  to  life. 

2  Ecclesiastes  vii.  i. 

3  The  Hfe  of  man  cannot,  stri<5lly  speaking,  be  called  either  long  or 
short,  since  it  is  the  ultimate  standard  by  which  duration  of  time  in  re- 
gard to  all  other  things  is  measured. 

In  one  of  the  Vedic  Upanishads  [Oupnekhal,  II.)  the  natural  length 
of  human  life  is  put  down  at  one  hundred  years.  And  I  believe  this 
to  be  right.  I  have  observed,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  that  it  is  only  people 
who  exceed  the  age  of  ninety  who^ttain  euthanasia, — who  die,  that 
is  to  say,  of  no  disease,  apoplexy  or  convulsion,  and  pass  away  with- 
out agony  of  any  sort ;  nay,  who  sometimes  even  show  no  pallor,  but 
expire  generally  in  a  sitting  attitude,  and  often  after  a  meal, — or,  I 
may  say,  simply  cease  to  live  rather  than  die.  To  come  to  one's  end 
before  the  age  of  ninety,  means  to  die  of  disease,  in  other  words, 
prematurely. 

Now  the  Old  Testament  (Psalms  xc.  10)  puts  the  limit  of  human  life 


THE  AGES   OF   LIFE.  I25 

ish  proverb  has  it,  it  means  to  see  much   evil, — Quien  larga 
vida  vive  mucho  mal  vide. 

A  man's  individual  career  is  not,  as  Astrology  wishes  to 
make  out,  to  be  predi6led  from  observation  of  the  planets  ; 
but  the  course  of  human  life  in  general,  as  far  as  the  various 
periods  of  it  are  concerned,  may  be  likened  to  the  succession 
of  the  planets  :  so  that  we  may  be  said  to  pass  under  the  in- 
fluence of  each  one  of  them  in  turn. 

At  ten.  Mercury  is  in  the  ascendant ;  and  at  that  age,  a  youth, 
like  this  planet,  is  chara6lerized  by  extreme  mobility  within  a 
narrow  sphere,  where  trifles  have  a  great  effedl  upon  him  ;  but 
under  the  guidance  of  so  crafty  and  eloquent  a  god,  he  easily 
makes  great  progress.  Venus  begins  her  sway  during  his 
twentieth  year,  and  then  a  man  is  wholly  given  up  to  the  love 
of  women.  At  thirty.  Mars  comes  to  the  front,  and  he  is  now 
all  energy  and  strength, — daring,  pugnacious  and  arrogant. 

When  a  man  reaches  the  age  of  forty,  he  is  under  the  rule 
of  the  four  Asteroids  ;  that  is  to  say,  his  life  has  gained  some- 
thing in  extension.  He  is  frugal  ;  in  other  words,  by  the  help 
of  CereSy  he  favors  what  is  useful ;  he  has  his  own  hearth,  by  the 
influence  of  Vesta ;  Pallas  has  taught  him  that  which  is  nec- 
essary for  him  to  know  ;  and  his  wife — his  Juno — rules  as  the 
mistress  of  his  house. 

But  at  the  age  of  fifty,  Jupiter  is  the  dominant  influence.  At 
that  period  a  man  has  outlived  most  of  his  contemporaries,  and 

at  seventy,  and  if  it  is  very  long,  at  eighty  years  ;  and  what  is  more 
noticeable  still,  Herodotus  (i.  32  and  iii.  22)  says  the  same  thing. 
But  this  is  wrong  ;  and  the  error  is  due  simply  to  a  rough  and  super- 
ficial estimate  of  the  results  of  daily  experience.  For  if  the  natural 
length  of  life  were  from  seventy  to  eighty  years,  people  would  die, 
about  that  time,  of  mere  old  age.  Now  this  is  certainly  not  the  case. 
If  they  die  then,  they  die,  like  younger  people,  of  disease ;  and  dis- 
ease is  something  abnormal.  Therefore  it  is  not  natural  to  die  at  that 
age.  It  is  only  when  they  are  between  ninety  and  a  hundred  that 
people  die  of  old  age  ;  die,  I  mean,  without  suffering  from  any  disease, 
or  showing  any  special  signs  of  their  condition,  such  as  a  struggle, 
death-rattle,  convulsion,  pallor, — the  absence  of  all  which  constitutes 
euthanasia.  The  natural  length  of  human  life  is  a  hundred  years ; 
and  in  assigning  that  limit  the  Upanishads  are  right  once  more. 


126  THE   AGES   OF   LIFE. 

he  can  feel  himself  superior  to  the  generation  about  him.  He 
is  still  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  his  strength,  and  rich  in  experi- 
ence and  knowledge  ;  and  if  he  has  any  power  and  position  of 
his  own,  he  is  endowed  with  authority  over  all  who  stand  in 
his  immediate  surroundings.  He  is  no  more  inclined  to  re- 
ceive orders  from  others  ;  he  wants  to  take  command  himself. 
The  work  most  suitable  to  him  now  is  to  guide  and  rule  with- 
in his  own  sphere.  This  is  the  point  where  Jupiter  culminates, 
and  where  the  man  of  fifty  years  is  at  his  best.' 

Then  comes  Saturn,  at  about  the  age  of  sixty,  a  weight  as 
o{  lead,  dull  and  slow  : —  I 

Bui  old  folks,  many  feign  as  they  were  dead; 
Unwieldy,  slow,  heavy  and  pale  as  lead.* 

Last  of  all,  Uranus ;  or,  as  the  saying  is,  a  man  goes  to 
heaven. 

I  cannot  find  a  place  for  Neptune,  as  this  planet  has  been 
very  thoughtlessly  named  ;  because  I  may  not  call  it  as  it 
should  be  called — Eros.  Otherwise  I  should  point  out  how 
Beginning  and  End  meet  together,  and  how  closely  and  inti- 
mately Eros  is  connected  with  Death  :  how  Orcus,  or  Amen- 
thes,  as  the  Egyptians  called  him,*  is  not  only  the  receiver  but 
the  giver  of  all  things — Xafi&dvuv  koI  Sidovf.  Death  is  the  great 
reservoir  of  Life.  Everything  comes  from  Orcus  ;  everything 
that  is  alive  now  was  once  there.  Could  we  but  understand 
the  great  trick  by  which  that  is  done,  all  would  be  clear  ! 

'  The  other  asteroids  which  have  been  discovered  since,  are  an  in- 
novation, and  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  them.  My  relation  to 
them  is  that  of  the  professors  of  philosophy  to  me — I  ignore  them,  be- 
cause they  do  not  suit  my  book. 

*  Romeo  and  Juliet,  W.  $. 

•  Plutarch,  De  hide  et  Osiride,  c.  29. 


RELIGION:  A  DIALOGUE,  ETC. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Prefatory  Note,      .......  v 

Religion  :  A  Dialogue, 9 

A  Few  Words  on  Pantheism,        .        .        .        .46 

On  Books  and  Reading,          .        .        .        .        .  49 

On  Physiognomy, 58 

Psychological  Observations,         ....  67 

The  Christian  System,            ,        .        .        .        .  78 


PREFATORY  NOTE. 

SCHOPENHAUER  is  one  of  the  few  philosophers  who  can 
be  generally   understood  without  a  commentary.     All 
his  theories  claim  to  be  drawn  dire6l  from  the  fa6ls,  to  be 
suggested  by  observation,  and  to  interpret  the  world  as  it  is  ; 
and  whatever  view  he  takes,  he  is  constant  in  his  appeal  to  the 
experience  of  common  life.     This  characteristic  endows  his 
style  with  a  freshness  and  vigor  which  would  be  difficult  to 
match  in  the  philosophical  writing  of  any  country,  and  impos- 
sible in  that  of  Germany.     If  it  were  asked  whether  there  were 
any  circumstances,  apart  from  heredity,  to  which  he  owed  his 
mental   habit,   the   answer   might  be  found  in  the  abnormal 
chara6ler  of  his  early  education,  his  acquaintance  with  the 
world  rather  than  with  books,  the  extensive  travels  of  his  boy- 
hood, his  ardent  pursuit  of  knowledge  for  its  own  sake  and 
without  regard  to  the  emoluments  and  endowments  of  learning. 
He  was  trained  in  realities  even  more  than  in  ideas  ;  and  hence 
he   is  original,  forcible,  clear,  an   enemy   of  all   philosophic 
indefiniteness  and  obscurity  ;   so  that  it  may  well  be  said  of 
him,  in  the  words  of  a  writer  in  the  Revue  Contemporaine,  ee 
n'  est  pas  un  philosophe  comme  Us  autres,  c'  est  un  philosophe 
qui  a  vu  le  monde. 

It  is  not  my  purpose,  nor  would  it  be  possible  within  the 
limits  of  a  prefatory  note,  to  attempt  an  account  of  Schopen- 
hauer's philosophy,  to  indicate  its  sources,  or  to  suggest  or 
rebut  the  obje6lions  which  may  be  taken  to  it.  M.  Ribot,  in 
his  excellent  little  book,*  has  done  all  that  is  necessary  in 
this  direction.  But  the  essays  here  presented  need  a  word  of 
explanation.  It  should  be  observed,  and  Schopenhauer  him- 
*  La  Philosophic  de  Schopenhauer,  par  Th.  Ribot. 

<5» 


VI  PREFATORY    NOTE. 

self  is  at  pains  to  point  out,  that  his  system  is  like  a  citadel 
with  a  hundred  gates  :  at  whatever  point  you  take  it  up, 
wherever  you  make  your  entrance,  you  are  on  the  road  to  the 
center.  In  this  respedt  his  writings  resemble  a  series  of  essays 
composed  in  support  of  a  single  thesis  ;  a  circumstance  which 
led  him  to  insist,  more  emphatically  even  than  most  philoso- 
phers, that  for  a  proper  understanding  of  his  system  it  was 
necessary  to  read  every  line  he  had  written.  Perhaps  it  would 
be  more  corre6l  to  describe  Die  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vorstel- 
lung  as  his  main  thesis,  and  his  other  treatises  as  merely 
corollary  to  it.  The  essays  in  this  volume  form  part  of  the 
corollary  ;  they  are  taken  from  a  colle<5lion  published  towards 
the  close  of  Schopenhauer's  life,  and  by  him  entitled  Parerga 
und  Paralipomena,  as  being  in  the  nature  of  surplusage  and 
illustrative  of  his  main  position.  They  are  by  far  the  most 
popular  of  his  works,  and  since  their  first  publication  in  1851, 
they  have  done  much  to  build  up  his  fame.  Written  so  as  to 
be  intelligible  enough  in  themselves,  the  tendency  of  many  of 
them  is  towards  the  fundamental  idea  on  which  his  system  is 
based.  It  may  therefore  be  convenient  to  summarize  that 
idea  in  a  couple  of  sentences  ;  more  especially  as  Schopenhauer 
sometimes  writes  as  if  his  advice  had  been  followed  and  his 
readers  were  acquainted  with  the  whole  of  his  work. 

All  philosophy  is  in  some  sense  the  endeavor  to  find  a 
unifying  principle,  to  discover  the  most  general  conception 
underlying  the  whole  field  of  nature  and  of  knowledge.  By 
one  of  those  bold  generalizations  which  occasionally  mark  a 
real  advance  in  Science,  Schopenhauer  conceived  this  unifying 
principle,  this  underlying  unity,  to  consist  in  something 
analogous  to  that  will  which  self- consciousness  reveals  to  us. 
Will  is,  according  to  him,  the  fundamental  reality  of  the 
world,  the  thing-in-itself ;  and  its  objectivation  is  what  is 
presented  in  phenomena.  The  struggle  of  the  will  to  realize 
itself  evolves  the  organism,  which  in  its  turn  evolves  intelli- 
gence as  the  servant  of  the  will.  And  in  pra6lical  life  the 
antagonism  between  the  will  and  the  intelledl  arises  from  the 
fa6t  that  the  former  is  the  metaphysical  substance,  the  latter 


PREFATORY   NOTE.  VU 

something  accidental  and  secondary.  And  further,  will  is 
desire,  that  is  to  say,  need  of  something  ;  hence  need  and 
pain  are  what  is  positive  in  the  world,  and  the  only  possible 
happiness  is  a  negation,  a  renunciation  oi  the  will  to  live. 

It  is  instru6live  to  note,  as  M.  Ribot  points  out,  that  in 
finding  the  origin  of  all  things,  not  in  intelligence,  as  some  of 
his  predecessors  in  philosophy  had  done,  but  in  will,  or  the 
force  of  nature,  from  which  all  phenomena  have  developed, 
Schopenhauer  was  anticipating  something  of  the  scientific 
spirit  of  the  nineteenth  century.  To  this  it  may  be  added  that 
in  combating  the  method  of  Fichte  and  Hegel,  who  spun  a 
system  out  of  abstra6l  ideas,  and  in  discarding  it  for  one  based 
on  observation  and  experience,  Schopenhauer  can  be  said  to 
have  brought  down  philosophy  from  heaven  to  earth. 

In  Schopenhauer's  view  the  various  forms  of  Religion  are 
no  less  a  produ6t  of  human  ingenuity  than  Art  or  Science. 
He  holds,  in  eSe6i,  that  all  religions  take  their  rise  in  the 
desire  to  explain  the  world  ;  and  that,  in  regard  to  truth  and 
error,  they  differ,  in  the  main,  not  by  preaching  monotheism, 
polytheism  or  pantheism,  but  in  so  far  as  they  recognize 
pessimism  or  optimism  as  the  true  description  of  life.  Hence 
any  religion  which  looked  upon  the  world  as  being  radically 
evil  appealed  to  him  as  containing  an  indestructible  element  of 
truth.  I  have  endeavored  to  present  his  view  of  two  of  the 
great  religions  of  the  world  in  the  extract  which  concludes 
this  volume,  and  to  which  I  have  given  the  title  of  The  Christian 
System.  The  tenor  of  it  is  to  show  that,  however  little  he  may 
have  been  in  sympathy  with  the  supernatural  element,  he  owed 
much  to  the  moral  do(5lrines  of  Christianity  and  of  Buddhism, 
between  which  he  traced  great  resemblance.  In  the  following 
Dialogue  he  applies  himself  to  a  discussion  of  the  pradlical 
efficacy  of  religious  forms  ;  and  though  he  was  an  enemy  of 
clericalism,  his  choice  of  a  method  which  allows  both  the 
affirmation  and  the  denial  of  that  efficacy  to  be  presented  with 
equal  force  may  perhaps  have  been  diredled  by  the  conscious- 
ness that  he  could  not  side  with  either  view  to  the  exclusion  of 
the  other.     In  any  case  his  pra6lical  philosophy  was  touched 


Vlll  PREFATORY    NOTE. 

with  the  spirit  of  Christianity.  It  was  more  than  artistic 
enthusiasm  which  led  him  in  profound  admiration  to  the 
Madonna  di  San  Sisto  : 

Sie  tragi  zur  Welt  ihn,  und  er  schaut  entsetzt 
In  ihrerGrau'l  chaotische  Verwirrung, 
In  ihres  Tobens  wilde  Raserei, 
In  ihres  Treibens  nie  geheilte  Thorheit, 
In  ihrer  Quaalen  nie  gestillten  Schmerz  ; 
Entsetzt :  doch  strahlet  Ruh'  and  Zuversicht 
Und  Siegesglanz  sein  Aug',  verkiindigend 
Schon  der  Eriosung  ewige  gewissheit. 

Pessimism  is  commonly  and  erroneously  supposed  to  be  the 
distinguishing  feature  of  Schopenhauer's  system.  It  is  right 
to  remember  that  the  same  fundamental  view  of  the  world  is 
presented  by  Christianity,  to  say  nothing  of  Oriental  religions. 

That  Schopenhauer  conceives  life  as  an  evil  is  a  dedu6lion, 
and  possibly  a  mistaken  deduction,  from  his  metaphysical 
theory.  Whether  his  scheme  of  things  is  correal  or  not — and 
it  shares  the  common  fate  of  all  metaphysical  systems  in  being 
unverifiable,  and  to  that  extent  unprofitable — he  will  in  the 
last  resort  have  made  good  his  claim  to  be  read  by  his  insight 
into  the  varied  needs  of  human  life.  It  may  be  that  a  future 
age  will  consign  his  metaphysics  to  the  philosophical  lumber- 
room  ;  but  he  is  a  literary  artist  as  well  as  a  philosopher,  and 
he  can  make  a  bid  for  fame  in  either  capacity.  What  is 
remarked  with  much  truth  of  many  another  writer,  that  he 
suggests  more  than  he  achieves,  is  in  the  highest  degree 
applicable  to  Schopenhauer  ;  and  his  obiter  difla,  his  sayings 
by  the  way,  will  always  find  an  audience. 

T.  B.  SAUNDERS. 


REiUClON. 

A   DIALOGUE. 

Demopheles.  Between  ourselves,  my  dear  fellow,  I  don't 
care  about  the  way  you  sometimes  have  of  exhibiting  your 
talent  for  philosophy  ;  you  make  religion  a  subje6l  for  sarcastic 
remarks,  and  even  for  open  ridicule.  Everyone  thinks  his 
religion  sacred,  and  therefore  you  ought  to  respedl  it. 

Philaleihes.  That  doesn't  follow  !  I  don't  see  why,  be- 
cause other  people  are  simpletons,  I  should  have  any  regard 
for  a  pack  of  lies.  I  respe6l  truth  everywhere,  and  so  I  can't 
respe6t  what  is  opposed  to  it.  My  maxim  is  Vigeat  Veritas  ef 
pereat  mundus ,  like  the  lawyers'  Fiat  justitia  et  pereat  mundus. 
Every  profession  ought  to  have  an  analogous  advice. 

Demopheles.  Then  I  suppose  dodlors  should  say  Fiant 
pilulae  et  pereat  mundus, — there  wouldn't  be  much  difficulty 
about  that ! 

Philalethes.  Heaven  forbid  !  You  must  take  everything 
cum  grano  salis. 

Dem.opheles.  Exactly ;  that's  why  I  want  you  to  take 
religion  cum,  grano  salis.  I  want  you  to  see  that  one  must 
meet  the  requirements  of  the  people  according  to  the  measure 
of  their  comprehension.  Where  you  have  masses  of  people, 
of  crude  susceptibilities  and  clumsy  intelligence,  sordid  in  their 
pursuits  and  sunk  in  drudgery,  religion  provides  the  only 
means  of  proclaiming  and  making  them  feel  the  high  import 
of  life.  For  the  average  man  takes  an  interest,  primarily,  in 
nothing  but  what  will  satisfy  his  physical  needs  and  hankerings, 
and  beyond  this,  give  him  a  little  amusement  and  pastime. 
Founders  of  religion  and  philosophers  come  into  the  world  to 
rouse  him  from  his  stupor  and  point  to  the  lofty  meaning  of 

(9) 


lO  RELIGION  :    A    DIALOGUE. 

existence ;  philosophers  for  the  few,  the  emancipated,  founders 
of  religion  for  the  many,  for  humanity  at  large.  For,  as  your 
friend  Plato  has  said,  the  multitude  can't  be  philosophers,  and 
you  shouldn't  forget  that.  Religion  is  the  metaphysics  of  the 
masses  ;  by  all  means  let  them  keep  it :  let  it  therefore  com- 
mand external  respe<5l,  for  to  discredit  it  is  to  take  it  away. 
Just  as  they  have  popular  poetry,  and  the  popular  wisdom  of 
proverbs,  so  they  must  have  popular  metaphysics  too  :  for 
mankind  absolutely  needs  an  interpretation  of  life ;  and  this, 
again,  must  be  suited  to  popular  comprehension.  Conse- 
quently, this  interpretation  is  always  an  allegorical  investiture 
of  the  truth  :  and  in  practical  life  and  in  its  effe6ls  on  the 
feelings,  that  is  to  say,  as  a  rule  of  action  and  as  a  comfort  and 
consolation  in  suffering  and  death,  it  accomplishes  perhaps 
just  as  much  as  the  truth  itself  could  achieve  if  we  possessed  it. 
Don't  take  offense  at  its  unkempt,  grotesque  and  apparently 
absurd  form  ;  for  with  your  education  and  learning,  you  have 
no  idea  of  the  roundabout  ways  by  which  people  in  their  crude 
state  have  to  receive  their  knowledge  of  deep  truths.  The 
various  religions  are  only  various  forms  in  which  the  truth, 
which  taken  by  itself  is  above  their  comprehension,  is  grasped 
and  realized  by  the  masses  ;  and  truth  becomes  inseparable 
from  these  forms.  Therefore,  my  dear  sir,  don't  take  it  amiss 
if  I  say  that  to  make  a  mockery  of  these  forms  is  both  shallow 
and  unjust. 

Philalethes.  But  isn't  it  every  bit  as  shallow  and  unjust  to 
demand  that  there  shall  be  no  other  system  of  metaphysics  but 
this  one,  cut  out  as  it  is  to  suit  the  requirements  and  compre- 
hension of  the  masses  ?  that  its  dodlrine  shall  be  the  limit  of 
human  speculation,  the  standard  of  all  thought,  so  that  the 
metaphysics  of  the  few,  the  emancipated,  as  you  call  them, 
must  be  devoted  only  to  confirming,  strengthening,  and  ex- 
plaining the  metaphysics  of  the  masses  ?  that  the  highest 
powers  of  human  intelligence  shall  remain  unused  and  unde- 
veloped, even  be  nipped  in  the  bud,  in  order  that  their  adivity 
may  not  thwart  the  popular  metaphysics  ?  And  isn't  this  just 
the  very  claim  which  religion  sets  up?     Isn't  it  a  little  too 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  II 

much  to  have  tolerance  and  delicate  forbearance  preached  by 
what  is  intolerance  and  cruelty  itself  ?  Think  of  the  heretical 
tribunals,  inquisitions,  religious  wars,  crusades,  Socrates'  cup 
of  poison,  Bruno's  and  Vanini's  death  in  the  flames!  Is  all 
this  to-day  quite  a  thing  of  the  past  ?  How  can  genuine  philo- 
sophical effort,  sincere  search  after  truth,  the  noblest  calling  of 
the  noblest  men,  be  let  and  hindered  more  completely  than  by 
a  conventional  system  of  metaphysics  enjoying  a  State  mo- 
nopoly, the  principles  of  whieh  are  impressed  into  every  head 
in  earliest  youth,  so  earnestly,  so  deeply,  and  so  firmly,  that, 
unless  the  mind  is  miraculously  elastic,  they  remain  indelible. 
In  this  way  the  groundwork  of  all  healthy  reason  is  once  for 
all  deranged  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  capacity  for  original  thought 
and  unbiased  judgment,  which  is  weak  enough  in  itself,  is,  in 
regard  to  those  subje6ts  to  which  it  might  be  applied,  for  ever 
paralyzed  and  ruined. 

Demopheles.  Which  means,  I  suppose,  that  people  have 
arrived  at  a  convidlion  which  they  won't  give  up  in  order  to 
embrace  yours  instead. 

Philalethes.  Ah  !  if  it  were  only  a  conviction  based  on 
insight.  Then  one  could  bring  arguments  to  bear,  and  the 
battle  would  be  fought  with  equal  weapons.  But  religions 
admittedly  appeal,  not  to  convidlion  as  the  result  of  argu- 
ment, but  to  belief  as  demanded  by  revelation.  And  as  the 
capacity  for  believing  is  strongest  in  childhood,  special  care  is 
taken  to  make  sure  of  this  tender  age.  This  has  much  more 
to  do  with  the  do6trines  of  belief  taking  root  than  threats  and 
reports  of  miracles.  If,  in  early  childhood,  certain  funda- 
mental views  and  do6lrines  are  paraded  with  unusual  solemnity, 
and  an  air  of  the  greatest  earnestness  never  before  visible  in 
anything  else  ;  if,  at  the  same  time,  the  possibility  of  a  doubt 
about  them  be  completely  passed  over,  or  touched  upon  only 
to  indicate  that  doubt  is  the  first  step  to  eternal  perdition,  the 
resulting  impression  will  be  so  deep  that,  as  a  rule,  that  is,  in 
almost  every  case,  doubt  about  them  will  be  almost  as  impos- 
sible as  doubt  about  one's  own  existence.  Hardly  one  in  ten 
thousand  will  have  the  strength  of  mind  to  ask  himself  seri- 


12  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

ously  and  earnestly — is  that  true  ?     To  call  such  as  can  do  it 
strong   minds,  esprits  forts,  is  a  description  more  apt  than  is 
generally  supposed.      But  for  the  ordinary  mind  there  is  noth- 
ing so  absurd  or  revolting  but  what,  if  inculcated  in  that  way, 
the  strongest  belief  in  it  will  strike  root.     If,  for  example,  the 
killing  of  a  heretic  or  infidel  were  essential  to  the  future  salva- 
tion of  his  soul,  almost  everyone  would  make  it  the  chief  event 
of  his  life,  and  in  dying  would  draw  consolation  and  strength 
from  the  remembrance  that  he  had  succeeded.     As  a  matter 
of  fact,  almost  every  Spaniard  in  days  gone  by  used  to  look 
upon  an  auto  da  fe  as  the  most  pious  of  all  a6ls  and  one  most 
agreeable  to  God.     A  parallel  to  this  may  be  found  in  the  way 
in  which  the  Thugs  (a  religious  se6l  in  India,  suppressed  a 
short  time  ago  by  the  English,  who  executed  numbers  of  them) 
express  their  sense  of  religion  and  their  veneration  for  the 
goddess    Kali  ;    they   take   every  opportunity   of  murdering 
their   friends   and   traveling   companions,  with  the   object  of 
getting  possession  of  their  goods,  and  in  the  serious  convidlion 
that  they  are  thereby  doing  a  praiseworthy  a6lion,  conducive 
to  their  eternal    welfare.*     The    power  of  religious   dogma, 
when  inculcated  early,  is  such  as  to  stifle  conscience,  compas- 
sion, and  finally  every  feeling  of  humanity.     But  if  you  want  to 
see  with  your  own  eyes  and  close  at  hand  what  timely  inocu- 
lation will  accomplish,  look  at  the  English.     Here  is  a  nation 
favored  before  all  others  by  nature  ;   endowed,  more  than  all 
others,   with    discernment,    intelligence,    power  of  judgment, 
strength  of  character  ;    look  at  them,  abased  and  made  ridicu- 
lous, beyond  all   others,  by  their  stupid  ecclesiastical   super- 
stition, which  appears  amongst  their  other  abilities  like  a  fixed 
idea  or  monomania.      For  this  they  have  to  thank  the  circum- 
stance that  education  is  in  the  hands  of  the  clergy,  whose 
endeavor  it  is  to  impress  all  the  articles  of  belief,  at  the  earliest 
age,  in  a  way  that  amounts  to  a  kind  of  paralysis  of  the  brain  ; 
this  in  its  turn  expresses  itself  all  their  life  in  an  idiotic  bigotry, 
which  makes  otherwise  most  sensible  and  intelligent  people 

*  Cf.  Illustrations  of  the  history  and  pradlice  of  the  Thugs,  London, 
1837  ;  also  the  Edinburg  Review,  Oct.-Jaii.,  1836-7. 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  1 3 

amongst  them   degrade  themselves  so  that  one  can't  make 
head  or  tail  of  them.     If  you  consider  how  essential  to  such  a 
masterpiece  is  inoculation  in  the  tender  age  of  childhood,  the 
missionary   system  appears   no  longe/  only  as  the  acme  of 
human  importunity,  arrogance  and  impertinence,  but  also  as 
an  absurdity,  if  it  doesn't  confine  itself  to  nations  which  are 
still  in  their  infancy,  like  Caffirs,  Hottentots,  South  Sea  Isl- 
anders,  etc.      Amongst   these   races   it    is  successful  ;    but  in 
India,  the  Brahmans  treat  the  discourses   of  the  missionaries 
with  contemptuous  smiles  of  approbation,  or  simply  shrug  their 
shoulders.     And  one  may  say  generally  that  the  proselytizing 
efforts  of  the  missionaries  in  India,  in  spite  of  the  most  advan- 
tageous facilities,  are,  as  a  rule,  a  failure.     An  authentic  report 
in  Vol.  XXI.  of  the  Asiatic  Journal  (1826)  states  that  alter  so 
many  years  of  missionary  a6livity  not  more  than  three  hund- 
red living  converts  were  to  be  found  in  the  whole  of  India, 
where  the  population  of  the  English  possessions  alone  comes 
to  one  hundred  and  fifteen  millions  ;   and  at  the  same  time  it 
is  admitted  that  the  Christian  converts  are  distinguished  for 
their  extreme  immorality.     Three  hundred  venal  and  bribed 
souls  out  of  so   many   millions  !     There  is   no  evidence  that 
things  have  gone  better  with  Christianity  in  India  since  then, 
in  spite  of  thefa6l  that  the  missionaries  are  now  trying,  con- 
trary to  stipulation  and   in  schools  exclusively  designed  for 
secular  English  instruction,  to  work  upon  the  children's  minds 
as  they  please,  in  order  to  smuggle  in  Christianity  ;   against 
which  the  Hindoos  are  most  jealously  on   their  guard.     As  I 
have  said,  childhood  is  the  time  to  sow  the  seeds  of  belief,  and 
not  manhood  ;   more  especially  where  an  earlier  faith  has  taken 
root.     An  acquired  conviction  such  as  is  feigned  by  adults  is, 
as  a  rule,  only  the  mask  for  some  kind   of  personal  interest. 
And  it  is  the  feeling  that  this  is  almost  bound  to  be  the  case 
which  makes  a  man  who  has  changed  his  religion  in  mature 
years  an  obje6l  of  contempt  to  most  people  everywhere  ;   who 
thus  show  that  they  look   upon  religion,  not  as  a  matter  of 
reasoned  convi<5lion,  but  merely  as  a  belief  inoculated  in  child- 
hood, before  any  test  can  be  applied.     And  that  they  are  right 


14  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

in  their  view  of  religion  is  also  obvious  from  the  way  in  which 
not  only  the  masses,  who  are  blindly  credulous,  but  also  the 
clergy  of  every  religion,  who,  as  such,  have  faithfully  and 
zealously  studied  its  sources,  foundations,  dogmas  and  disputed 
points,  cleave  as  a  body  to  the  religion  of  their  particular 
country  ;  consequently  for  a  minister  of  one  religion  or  con- 
fession to  go  over  to  another  is  the  rarest  thing  in  the  world. 
The  Catholic  clergy,  for  example,  are  fully  convinced  of  the 
truth  of  all  the  tenets  of  their  Church,  and  so  are  the  Protestant 
clergy  of  theirs,  and  both  defend  the  principles  of  their  creeds 
with  like  zeal.  And  yet  the  convi6lion  is  governed  merely  by 
the  country  native  to  each  ;  to  the  South  German  ecclesiastic 
the  truth  of  the  Catholic  dogma  is  quite  obvious,  to  the  North 
German,  the  Protestant.  If  then,  these  convi6Uons  are  based 
on  obje6live  reasons,  the  reasons  must  be  climatic,  and  thrive, 
like  plants,  some  only  here,  some  only  there.  The  convi6lions 
of  those  who  are  thus  locally  convinced  are  taken  on  trust  and 
believed  by  the  masses  everywhere. 

Demopheles.  Well,  no  harm  is  done,  and  it  doesn't  make 
any  real  difference.  As  a  fact.  Protestantism  is  more  suited 
to  the  North,  Catholicism  to  the  south. 

Philalethes.  So  it  seems.  Still  I  take  a  higher  standpoint, 
and  keep  in  view  a  more  important  objecl,  the  progress, 
namely,  of  the  knowledge  of  truth  among  mankind.  And 
from  this  point  of  view,  it  is  a  terrible  thing  that,  wherever  a 
man  is  born,  certain  propositions  are  inculcated  in  him  in 
earliest  youth,  and  he  is  assured  that  he  may  never  have  any 
doubts  about  them,  under  penalty  of  thereby  forfeiting  eternal 
salvation  ;  propositions,  I  mean,  which  affe6t  the  foundation 
of  all  our  other  knowledge  and  accordingly  determine  for  ever, 
and,  if  they  are  false,  distort  for  ever,  the  point  of  view  from 
which  our  knowledge  starts  ;  and  as,  further,  the  corollaries 
of  these  propositions  touch  the  entire  system  of  our  intelledlual 
attainments  at  every  point,  the  whole  of  human  knowledge  is 
thoroughly  adulterated  by  them.  Evidence  of  this  is  afforded 
by  every  literature  ;  the  most  striking  by  that  of  the  Middle 
Age,  but  in  a  too  considerable  degree  by  that  of  the  fifteenth 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  I5 

and  sixteenth  centuries.  Look  at  even  the  first  minds  of  all 
those  epochs  ;  how  paralyzed  they  are  by  false  fundamental 
positions  like  these  ;  how,  more  especially,  all  insight  into  the 
true  constitution  and  working  of  nature  is,  as  it  were,  blocked 
up.  During  the  whole  of  the  Christian  period  Theism  lies 
like  a  mountain  on  all  intellectual,  and  chiefly  on  all  philo- 
sophical efforts,  and  arrests  or  stunts  all  progress.  For  the 
scientific  men  of  these  ages  God,  devil,  angels,  demons  hid  the 
whole  of  nature  ;  no  enquiry  was  followed  to  the  end,  nothing 
ever  thoroughly  examined  ;  everything  which  went  beyond 
the  most  obvious  casual  nexus  was  immediately  set  down  to 
those  personalities.  ' '  It  was  at  once  explained  by  a  reference 
to  God,  angels  or  demons, ' '  as  Pomponatius  expressed  himself 
when  the  matter  was  being  discussed,  ^^  and  philosophers  at 
any  rate  have  nothing  analogous^  There  is,  to  be  sure,  a 
suspicion  of  irony  in  this  statement  of  Pomponatius,  as  his 
perfidy  in  other  matters  is  known  ;  still,  he  is  only  giving  ex- 
pression to  the  general  way  of  thinking  of  his  age.  And  if, 
on  the  other  hand,  any  one  possessed  the  rare  quality  of  an 
elastic  mind,  which  alone  could  burst  the  bonds,  his  writings 
and  he  himself  with  them  were  burnt ;  as  happened  to  Bruno 
and  Vanini.  How  completely  an  ordinary  mind  is  paralyzed 
by  that  early  preparation  in  metaphysics  is  seen  in  the  most 
vivid  way  and  on  its  most  ridiculous  side,  where  such  a  one 
undertakes  to  criticise  the  dodlrines  of  an  alien  creed.  The 
efforts  of  the  ordinary  man  are  generally  found  to  be  dire<5led 
to  a  careful  exhibition  of  the  incongruity  of  its  dogmas  with 
those  of  his  own  belief :  he  is  at  great  pains  to  show  that  not 
only  do  they  not  say,  but  certainly  do  not  mean,  the  same 
thing  ;  and  with  that  he  thinks,  in  his  simplicity,  that  he  has 
demonstrated  the  falsehood  of  the  alien  creed.  He  really  never 
dreams  of  putting  the  question  which  of  the  two  may  be  right ; 
his  own  articles  of  belief  he  looks  upon  as  d  priori  true  and 
certain  principles. 

Demopheles.  So  that's  your  higher  point  of  view  ?  I  assure 
you  there  is  a  higher  still.  First  live,  then  philosophize  is  a 
maxim  of  more  comprehensive  import  than  appears  at  first 


l6  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

sight.  The  first  thing  to  do  is  to  control  the  raw  and  evil 
dispositions  of  the  masses,  so  as  to  keep  them  from  pushing 
injustice  to  extremes,  and  from  committing  cruel,  violent  and 
disgraceful  a6ts.  If  you  were  to  wait  until  they  had  recognized 
and  grasped  the  truth,  you  would  undoubtedly  come  too  late  ; 
and  truth,  supposing  that  it  had  been  found,  would  surpass 
their  powers  of  comprehension.  In  any  case  an  allegorical 
investiture  of  it,  a  parable  or  myth,  is  all  that  would  be  of  any 
service  to  them.  As  Kant  said,  there  must  be  a  public 
standard  of  Right  and  Virtue  ;  it  must  always  flutter  high 
overhead.  It  is  a  matter  of  indifference  what  heraldic  figures 
are  inscribed  on  it,  so  long  as  they  signify  what  is  meant. 
Such  an  allegorical  representation  of  truth  is  always  and  every- 
where, for  humanity  at  large,  a  serviceable  substitute  for  a  truth 
to  which  it  can  never  attain, — for  a  philosophy  which  it  can 
never  grasp  ;  let  alone  the  fa6l  that  it  is  daily  changing  its 
shape,  and  has  in  no  form  as  yet  met  with  general  acceptance. 
Practical  aims,  then,  my  good  Philalethes,  are  in  every  respe6l 
superior  to  theoretical. 

Philalethes.     What  you  say  is  very  like  the  ancient  advice 

of  Timaeus  of  Locrus,    the  Pythagorean,  stop  the  tniyid  with 

falsehood  if  yon  cati'  t  speed  it  with  truth.    I  almost  suspe6l  that 

your  plan  is  the  one  which  is  so  much  in  vogue  just  now,  that 

you  want  to  impress  upon  me  that 

The  hour  is  nigh 
When  we  may  feast  in  quiet. 

You  recommend  us,  in  fa6l,  to  take  timely  precautions,  so  that 
the  waves  of  the  discontented  raging  masses  mayn't  disturb  us 
at  table.  But  the  whole  point  of  view  is  as  false  as  it  is  now- 
a-days  popular  and  commended  ;  and  so  I  make  haste  to 
enter  a  protest  against  it.  It  is  false,  that  state,  justice,  law 
cannot  be  upheld  without  the  assistance  of  religion  and  its 
dogmas  ;  and  that  justice  and  public  order  need  religion  as  a 
necessary  complement,  if  legislative  enactments  are  to  be 
carried  out.  It  is  false,  were  it  repeated  a  hundred  times. 
An  effeftive  and  striking  argument  to  the  contrary  is  afforded 
by  the  ancients,  especially  the  Greeks.     They  had  nothing  at 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  17 

all  of  what  we  understand  by  religion.  They  had  no  sacred 
documents,  no  dogma  to  be  learned  and  its  acceptance  furthered 
by  everyone,  its  principles  to  be  inculcated  early  on  the  young. 
Just  as  little  was  moral  do6lrine  preached  by  the  ministers  of 
religion,  nor  did  the  priests  trouble  themselves  about  morality 
or  about  what  the  people  did  or  left  undone.  Not  at  all.  The 
duty  of  the  priests  was  confined  to  temple-ceremonial,  prayers, 
hymns,  sacrifices,  processions,  lustrations  and  the  like,  the 
obje6l  of  which  was  anything  but  the  moral  improvement  of 
the  individual.  What  was  called  religion  consisted,  more 
-especially  in  the  cities,  in  giving  temples  here  and  there  to 
some  of  the  gods  of  the  greater  tribes,  in  which  the  worship 
described  was  carried  on  as  a  state  matter,  and  was  conse- 
quently, in  fa6t,  an  affair  of  police.  No  one,  except  the 
fun6lionaries  performing,  was  in  any  way  compelled  to  attend, 
or  even  to  believe  in  it.  In  the  whole  of  antiquity  there  is  no 
trace  of  any  obligation  to  beHeve  in  any  particular  dogma. 
Merely  in  the  case  of  an  open  denial  of  the  existence  of  the 
gods,  or  any  other  reviling  of  them,  a  penalty  was  imposed, 
and  that  on  account  of  the  insult  offered  to  the  state,  which 
served  those  gods  ;  beyond  this  it  was  free  to  everyone  to 
think  of  them  what  he  pleased.  If  anyone  wanted  to  gain  the 
favor  of  those  gods  privately,  by  prayer  or  sacrifice,  it  was 
open  to  him  to  do  so  at  his  own  expense  and  at  his  own  risk  ; 
if  he  didn't  do  it,  no  one  made  any  objection,  least  of  all  the 
state.  In  the  case  of  the  Romans,  everyone  had  his  own 
Lares  and  Penates  at  home  ;  they  were,  however,  in  reality, 
only  the  venerated  busts  of  ancestors.  Of  the  immortality  of 
the  soul  and  a  life  beyond  the  grave,  the  ancients  had  no  firm, 
clear  or,  least  of  all,  dogmatically  fixed  idea,  but  very  loose, 
fluctuating,  indefinite  and  problematical  notions,  everyone  in 
his  own  way  :  and  the  ideas  about  the  gods  were  just  as  vary- 
ing, individual  and  vague.  There  was,  therefore,  really  no 
religion,  in  our  sense  of  the  word,  amongst  the  ancients.  But 
did  anarchy  and  lawlessness  prevail  amongst  them  on  that 
account?  Is  not  law  and  civil  order,  rather,  so  much  their 
work,  that  it  still  forms  the  foundation  of  our  own  ?     Was 


l8  RELIGION  :    A    DIALOGUE. 

there  not  complete  prote6lion  for  property,  even  though  it 
consisted  for  the  most  part  of  slaves  ?  And  did  not  this  state 
of  things  last  for  more  than  a  thousand  years  ?  So  that  I  can't 
recognize,  I  must  even  protest  against  the  practical  aims  and 
the  necessity  of  religion  in  the  sense  indicated  by  you,  and  so 
popular  now-a-days,  that  is,  as  an  indispensable  foundation  of 
all  legislative  arrangements.  For,  if  you  take  that  point  of 
view,  the  pure  and  sacred  endeavor  after  truth  would,  to  say 
the  least,  appear  quixotic,  and  even  criminal,  if  it  ventured,  in 
its  feeling  of  justice,  to  denounce  the  authoritative  creed  as  a 
usurper  who  had  taken  possession  of  the  throne  of  truth  and 
maintained  his  position  by  keeping  up  the  deception. 

Demopheles.  But  religion  is  not  opposed  to  truth  ;  it  itself 
teaches  truth.  And  as  the  range  of  its  a6livity  is  not  a  narrow 
le<5lure  room,  but  the  world  and  humanity  at  large,  religion 
must  conform  to  the  requirements  and  comprehension  of  an 
audience  so  numerous  and  so  mixed.  Religion  must  not  let 
truth  appear  in  its  naked  form  ;  or,  to  use  a  medical  simile,  it 
must  not  exhibit  it  pure,  but  must  employ  a  mythical  vehicle, 
a  medium,  as  it  were.  You  can  also  compare  truth  in  this 
respe<5l  to  certain  chemical  stuffs  which  in  themselves  are 
gaseous,  but  which  for  medicinal  uses,  as  also  for  preservation 
or  transmission,  must  be  bound  to  a  stable,  solid  base,  because 
they  would  otherwise  volatilize.  Chlorine  gas,  for  example,  is 
for  all  purposes  applied  only  in  the  form  of  chlorides.  But  if 
truth,  pure,  abstra6l  and  free  from  all  mythical  alloy,  is  always 
to  remain  unattainable,  even  by  philosophers,  it  might  be  com- 
pared to  fluorine,  which  cannot  even  be  isolated,  but  must 
always  appear  in  combination  with  other  elements.  Or,  to 
take  a  less  scientific  simile,  truth,  which  is  inexpressible  except 
by  means  of  myth  and  allegory,  is  like  water,  which  can  be 
carried  about  only  in  vessels  ;  a  philosopher  who  insists  on 
obtaining  it  pure  is  like  a  man  who  breaks  the  jug  in  order  to 
get  the  water  by  itself  This  is,  perhaps,  an  exact  analogy. 
At  any  rate,  religion  is  truth  allegorically  and  mythically  ex- 
pressed, and  so  rendered  attainable  and  digestible  by  mankind 
in   general.      Mankind  couldn't  possibly   take  it  pure  and 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  I9 

unmixed,  just  as  we  can't  breathe  pure  oxygen  ;  we  require 
an  addition  of  four  times  its  bulk  in  nitrogen.  In  plain  lan- 
guage, the  profound  meaning,  the  high  aim  of  life,  can  only 
be  unfolded  and  presented  to  the  masses  symbolically,  because 
they  are  incapable  of  grasping  it  in  its  true  signification. 
Philosophy,  on  the  other  hand,  should  be  like  the  Eleusinian 
mysteries,  for  the  few,  the  elite. 

Philaleihes.  I  understand.  It  comes,  in  short,  to  truth 
wearing  the  garment  of  falsehood.  But  in  doing  so  it  enters 
on  a  fatal  alliance.  What  a  dangerous  weapon  is  put  into  the 
hands  of  those  who  are  authorized  to  employ  falsehood  as  the 
vehicle  of  truth  !  If  it  is  as  you  say,  I  fear  the  damage  caused 
by  the  falsehood  will  be  greater  than  any  advantage  the  truth 
could  ever  produce.  Of  course,  if  the  allegory  were  admitted 
to  be  such,  I  should  raise  no  obje6lion  ;  but  with  the  admis- 
sion it  would  rob  itself  of  all  respe6t,  and  consequently,  of  all 
utility.  The  allegory  must,  therefore,  put  in  a  claim  to  be 
true  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word,  and  maintain  the  claim  ; 
while,  at  the  most,  it  is  true  only  in  an  allegorical  sense.  Here 
lies  the  irreparable  mischief,  the  permanent  evil  ;  and  this  is 
why  religion  has  always  been  and  always  will  be  in  conflict 
with  the  noble  endeavor  after  pure  truth. 

Demopheles.  Oh  no  !  that  danger  is  guarded  against.  If 
religion  mayn't  exactly  confess  its  allegorical  nature,  it  gives 
sufficient  indication  of  it. 

Philaleihes.     How  so  ? 

Demopheles.  In  its  mysteries.  ' '  Mystery, "  is  in  reality 
only  a  technical  theological  term  for  religious  allegory.  All 
religions  have  their  mysteries.  Properly  speaking,  a  mystery 
is  a  dogma  which  is  plainly  absurd,  but  which,  nevertheless, 
conceals  in  itself  a  lofty  truth,  and  one  which  by  itself  would 
be  completely  incomprehensible  to  the  ordinary  understanding 
of  the  raw  multitude.  The  multitude  accepts  it  in  this  disguise 
on  trust,  and  believes  it,  without  being  led  astray  by  the 
absurdity  of  it,  which  even  to  its  intelligence  is  obvious  ;  and 
in  this  way  it  participates  in  the  kernel  of  the  matter  so  far  as 
it  is  possible  for  it  to  do  so.     To  explain  what  I  mean,  I  may 


20  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

add  that  even  in  philosophy  an  attempt  has  been  made  to 
make  use  of  a  mystery.  Pascal,  for  example,  who  was  at  once 
a  pietist,  a  mathematician,  and  a  philosopher,  says  in  this 
threefold  capacity  :  God  is  everywhere  center  and  nowhere 
periphery.  Malebranche  has  also  the  just  remark  :  Liberty  is 
a  mystery.  One  could  go  a  step  further  and  maintain  that  in 
religions  everything  is  mystery.  For  to  impart  truth,  in  the 
proper  sense  of  the  word,  to  the  multitude  in  its  raw  state  is 
absolutely  impossible  ;  all  that  can  fall  to  its  lot  is  to  be 
enlightened  by  a  mythological  refle6lion  of  it.  Naked  truth 
is  out  of  place  before  the  eyes  of  the  profane  vulgar  ;  it  can 
only  make  its  appearance  thickly  veiled.  Hence,  it  is  unreason- 
able to  require  of  a  religion  that  it  shall  be  true  in  the  proper 
sense  of  the  word  ;  and  this,  I  may  observe  in  passing,  is  now- 
a-days  the  absurd  contention  of  Rationalists  and  Supernatural- 
ists  alike.  Both  start  from  the  position  that  religion  must  be 
the  real  truth  ;  and  while  the  former  demonstrate  that  it  is  not 
the  truth,  the  latter  obstinately  maintain  that  it  is  ;  or  rather, 
the  former  dress  up  and  arrange  the  allegorical  element  in  such 
a  way,  that,  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word,  it  could  be  true, 
but  would  be,  in  that  case,  a  platitude  ;  while  the  latter  wish 
to  maintain  that  it  is  true  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word, 
without  any  further  dressing  ;  a  belief,  which,  as  we  ought  to 
know  is  only  to  be  enforced  by  inquisitions  and  the  stake.  As 
a  fa<5l,  however,  myth  and  allegory  really  form  the  proper 
element  of  religion  ;  and  under  this  indispensable  condition, 
which  is  imposed  by  the  intelle6lual  limitation  of  the  multitude, 
religion  provides  a  sufficient  satisfaction  for  those  metaphysical 
requirements  of  mankind  which  are  incestrudlible.  It  takes 
the  place  of  that  pure  philosophical  truth  which  is  infinitely 
difficult  and  perhaps  never  attainable. 

Philalethes.  Ah  !  just  as  a  wooden  leg  takes  the  place  of  a 
natural  one  ;  it  supplies  what  is  lacking,  barely  does  duty  for 
it,  claims  to  be  regarded  as  a  natural  leg,  and  is  more  or  less 
artfully  put  together.  The  only  difference  is  that,  whilst  a 
natural  leg  as  a  rule  preceded  the  wooden  one,  religion  has 
everywhere  got  the  start  of  philosophy. 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  21 

Demopheles.     That  may  be,  but  still  for  a  man  who  hasn't  a 
natural  leg,  a  wooden  one  is  of  great  service.     You  must  bear 
in  mind  that  the  metaphysical  needs  of  mankind  absolutely 
require  satisfa6lion,  because  the  horizon  of  men's  thoughts 
must  have  a  background  and  not  remain   unbounded.     Man 
has,  as  a  rule,  no  faculty  for  weighing  reasons  and  discrimin- 
ating between  what  is  false  and  what  is  true  ;   and  besides,  the 
labor  which  nature  and  the  needs  of  nature  impose  upon  him, 
leaves  him  no  time  for  such  enquiries,  or   for   the   education 
which  they  presuppose.     In  his  case,  therefore,  it  is  no  use 
talking  of  a  reasoned  convi6lion  ;    he  has  to  fall  back  on  belief 
and  authority.     If  a  really  true  philosophy  were  to  take  the 
place  of  religion,  nine-tenths  at  least  of  mankind   would  have 
to  receive  it  on  authority  ;    that  is  to  say,  it  too  would  be  a 
matter  of  faith,  for  Plato's  dictum,  that  the  multitude  can't  be 
philosophers,  will  always  remain  true.     Authority,  however, 
is  an  affair  of  time  and  circumstance  alone,  and  so  it  can't  be 
bestowed  on  that  which  has  only   reason  in   its  favor,  it  must 
accordingly  be  allowed  to  nothing  but  what  has  acquired  it  in 
the  course  of  history,  even  if  it  is  only  an  allegorical  repre- 
sentation of  truth.    Truth  in  this  form,  supported  by  authority, 
appeals  first  of  all  to  those  elements  in  the  human  constitution 
which  are  stri6lly  metaphysical,  that  is  to  say,  to  the  need  man 
feels  of  a  theory  in  regard  to  the  riddle  of  existence  which 
forces  itself  upon  his  notice,  a  need  arising  from  the  conscious- 
ness that  behind  the  physical  in  the  world  there  is  a  meta- 
physical, something  permanent  as  the  foundation  of  constant 
change.     Then  it  appeals  to  the  will,  to  the  fears  and  hopes  of 
mortal  beings  living  in  constant  struggle  ;   for  whom,  accord- 
ingly, religion  creates  gods  and  demons  whom   they  can  cry 
to,  appease  and  win  over.     Finally,  it  appeals  to  that  moral 
consciousness  which  is  undeniably  present  in  man,  lends  to  it 
that  corroboration  and  support  without  which  it  would  not 
easily  maintain  itself  in  the  struggle  against  so  many  tempta- 
tions.    It  is  just  from  this  side  that  religion  affords  an  inex- 
haustible source  of  consolation  and  comfort  in  the  innumerable 
trials  of  life,  a  comfort  which  does  not  leave  men  in  death,  but 


22  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

rather  then  only  unfolds  its  full  efficacy.  So  religion  may  be 
compared  to  one  who  takes  a  blind  man  by  the  hand  and  leads 
him,  because  he  is  unable  to  see  for  himself,  whose  concern  it 
is  to  reach  his  destination,  not  to  look  at  everything  by  the  way. 

Philalethes.  That  is  certainly  the  strong  point  of  religion. 
If  it  is  a  fraud,  it  is  a  pious  fraud;  that  is  undeniable.  But 
this  makes  priests  something  between  deceivers  and  teachers 
of  morality;  they  daren't  teach  the  real  truth,  as  you  have 
quite  rightly  explained,  even  if  they  knew  it,  which  is  not  the 
case.  A  true  philosophy,  then,  can  always  exist,  but  not  a 
true  religion  ;  true,  I  mean,  in  the  proper  understanding  of 
the  word,  not  merely  in  that  flowery  or  allegorical  sense  which 
you  have  described  ;  a  sense  in  which  all  religions  would  be 
true,  only  in  various  degrees.  It  is  quite  in  keeping  with  the 
inextricable  mixture  of  weal  and  woe,  honesty  and  deceit, 
good  and  evil,  nobility  and  baseness,  which  is  the  average 
chara6leristic  of  the  world  everywhere,  that  the  most  important, 
the  most  lofty,  the  most  sacred  truths  can  make  their  appear- 
ance only  in  combination  with  a  lie,  can  even  borrow  strength 
from  a  lie  as  from  something  that  works  more  powerfully  on 
mankind  ;  and,  as  revelation,  must  be  ushered  in  by  a  lie. 
This  might,  indeed,  be  regarded  as  the  cachet  of  the  moral 
world.  However,  we  won't  give  up  the  hope  that  mankind 
will  eventually  reach  a  point  of  maturity  and  education  at 
which  it  can  on  the  one  side  produce,  and  on  the  other  receive, 
the  true  philosophy.  Simplex  sigillum  veri :  the  naked  truth 
must  be  so  simple  and  intelligible  that  it  can  be  imparted  to 
all  in  its  true  form,  without  any  admixture  of  myth  and  fable, 
without  disguising  it  in  the  form  of  religion. 

Demopheles.     You've  no  notion  how  stupid  most  people  are. 

Philalethes.  I  am  only  expressing  a  hope  which  I  can't 
give  up.  If  it  were  fulfilled,  truth  in  its  simple  and  inteUigible 
form  would  of  course  drive  religion  from  the  place  it  has  so 
long  occupied  as  its  representative,  and  by  that  very  means 
kept  open  for  it.  The  time  would  have  come  when  religion 
would  have  carried  out  her  objedl  and  completed  her  course  : 
the  race  she  had  brought  to  years  of  discretion  she  could  dis- 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  2$ 

miss,  and  herself  depart  in  peace  :  that  would  be  the  euthanasia 
of  religion.  But  as  long  as  she  lives,  she  has  two  faces,  one 
of  truth,  one  of  fraud.  According  as  you  look  at  one  or  the 
other,  you  will  bear  her  favor  or  ill-will.  Religion  must  be 
regarded  as  a  necessary  evil,  its  necessity  resting  on  the  pitiful 
imbecility  of  the  great  majority  of  mankind,  incapable  of 
grasping  the  truth,  and  therefore  requiring,  in  its  pressing 
need,  something  to  take  its  place. 

Demopheles.  Really,  one  would  think  that  you  philosophers 
had  truth  in  a  cupboard,  and  that  all  you  had  to  do  was  to  go 
and  get  it  ! 

Philalethes.  Well,  if  we  haven't  got  it,  it  is  chiefly  owing  to 
the  pressure  put  upon  philosophy  by  religion  at  all  times  and  in 
all  places.  People  have  tried  to  make  the  expression  and  com- 
munication of  truth,  even  the  contemplation  and  discovery  of 
it,  impossible,  by  putting  children,  in  their  earliest  years,  into 
the  hands  of  priests  to  be  manipulated  ;  to  have  the  lines,  in 
which  their  fundamental  thoughts  are  henceforth  to  run,  laid 
down  with  such  firmness  as,  in  essential  matters,  to  be  fixed 
and  determined  for  this  whole  life.  When  I  take  up  the  writ- 
ings even  of  the  best  intelle<5ls  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries,  (more  especially  if  I  have  been  engaged  in  Oriental 
studies,)  I  am  sometimes  shocked  to  see  how  they  are  paralyzed 
and  hemmed  in  on  all  sides  by  Jewish  ideas.  How  can 
anyone  think  out  the  true  philosophy  when  he  is  prepared 
like  this  ? 

Demopheles.  Even  if  the  true  philosophy  were  to  be  dis- 
covered, religion  wouldn't  disappear  from  the  world,  as  you 
seem  to  think.  There  can't  be  one  system  of  metaphysics  for 
everybody  ;  that's  rendered  impossible  by  the  natural  differ 
ences  of  intelle(5lual  power  between  man  and  man,  and  the 
differences,  too,  which  education  makes.  It  is  a  necessity  for 
the  great  majority  of  mankind  to  engage  in  that  severe  bodily 
labor  which  cannot  be  dispensed  with  if  the  ceaseless  require- 
ments of  the  whole  race  are  to  be  satisfied.  Not  only  does 
this  leave  the  majority  no  time  for  education,  for  learning,  for 
contemplation  ;   but  by  virtue  of  the  hard  and  fast  antagonism 


24  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

between  muscles  and  mind,  the  intelligence  is  blunted  by  so 
much  exhausting  bodily  labor,  and  becomes  heavy,  clumsy, 
awkward,  and  consequently  incapable  of  grasping  any  other 
than  quite  simple  situations.  At  least  nine-tenths  of  the  human 
race  falls  under  this  category.  But  still  the  people  require  a 
system  of  metaphysics,  that  is,  an  account  of  the  world  and 
our  existence,  because  such  an  account  belongs  to  the  most 
natural  needs  of  mankind,  they  require  a  popular  system  ;  and 
to  be  popular  it  must  combine  many  rare  qualities.  It  must 
be  easily  understood,  and  at  the  same  time  possess,  on  the 
proper  points,  a  certain  amount  of  obscurity,  even  of  impene- 
trability ;  then  a  corre6l  and  satisfactory  system  of  morality 
must  be  bound  up  with  its  dogmas ;  above  all,  it  must  afford 
inexhaustible  consolation  in  suffering  and  death  ;  the  conse- 
quence of  all  this  is,  that  it  can  only  be  true  in  an  allegorical 
and  not  in  a  real  sense.  Further,  it  must  have  the  support  of 
an  authority  which  is  impressive  by  its  great  age,  by  being 
universally  recognized,  by  its  documents,  their  tone  and  utter- 
ances ;  qualities  which  are  so  extremely  difficult  to  combine 
that  many  a  man  wouldn't  be  so  ready,  if  he  considered  the 
matter,  to  help  to  undermine  a  religion,  but  would  refle6l  that 
what  he  is  attacking  is  a  people's  most  sacred  treasure.  If  you 
want  to  form  an  opinion  on  religion,  you  should  always  bear 
in  mind  the  character  of  the  great  multitude  for  which  it  is 
destined,  and  form  a  pi6lure  to  yourself  of  its  complete  inferiority, 
moral  and  intelle(5fual.  It  is  incredible  how  far  this  inferiority 
goes,  and  how  perseveringly  a  spark  of  truth  will  glimmer  on 
even  under  the  crudest  covering  of  monstrous  fable  or  gro- 
tesque ceremony,  clinging  indestru6libly,  like  the  odor  of 
musk,  to  everything  that  has  once  come  into  conta6l  with  it. 
In  illustration  of  this,  consider  the  profound  wisdom  of  the 
Upanishads,  and  then  look  at  the  mad  idolatry  in  the  India  of 
to-day,  with  its  pilgrimages,  processions  and  festivities,  or  at 
the  insane  and  ridiculous  goings-on  of  the  Saniassi.  Still  one 
can't  deny  that  in  all  this  insanity  and  nonsense  there  lies  some 
obscure  purpose  which  accords  with,  or  is  a  reflection  of  the 
profound  wisdom  I  mentioned.      But  for  the  brute  multitude 


RELIGION  :    A    DIALOGUE.  25 

it  had  to  be  dressed  up  in  this  form.  In  such  a  contrast  as 
this  we  have  the  two  poles  of  humanity,  the  wisdom  of  the 
individual  and  the  bestiality  of  the  many,  both  of  which  find 
their  point  of  contact  in  the  moral  sphere.  That  saying  from 
the  Kurral  must  occur  to  everybody.  Base  people  look  like 
men,  but  I  have  never  seen  their  exa6l  counterpart.  The  man 
of  education  may,  all  the  same,  interpret  religion  to  himself 
aim  grano  salis  ;  the  man  of  learning,  the  contemplative  spirit 
may  secretly  exchange  it  for  a  philosophy.  But  here  again 
one  philosophy  wouldn't  suit  everybody ;  by  the  laws  of 
affinity  every  system  would  draw  to  itself  that  public  to  whose 
education  and  capacities  it  was  most  suited.  So  there  is  always 
an  inferior  metaphysical  system  of  the  schools  for  the  educated 
multitude,  and  a  higher  one  for  the  Slite.  Kant's  lofty  doctrine, 
for  instance,  had  to  be  degraded  to  the  level  of  the  schools  and 
ruined  by  such  men  as  Fries,  Krug  and  Salat.  In  short,  here, 
if  anywhere,  Goethe's  maxim  is  true.  One  does  not  suit  all. 
Pure  faith  m  revelation  and  pure  metaphysics  are  for  the  two 
extremes,  and  for  the  intermediate  steps  mutual  modifications 
of  both  in  innumerable  combinations  and  gradations.  And 
this  is  rendered  necessary  by  the  immeasurable  differences 
which  nature  and  education  have  placed  between  man  and  man. 

Philalethes.  The  view  you  take  reminds  me  seriously  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  ancients,  which  you  mentioned  just  now. 
Their  fundamental  purpose  seems  to  have  been  to  remedy 
the  evil  arising  from  the  differences  of  intelledlual  capacity  and 
education.  The  plan  was,  out  of  the  great  multitude  utterly 
impervious  to  unveiled  truth,  to  sele6l  certain  persons  who 
might  have  it  revealed  to  them  up  to  a  given  point  ;  out  of 
these,  again,  to  choose  others  to  whom  more  would  be  re- 
vealed, as  being  able  to  grasp  more  ;  and  so  on  up  to  the 
Epopts.  These  grades  corresponded  to  the  little,  greater  and 
greatest  mysteries.  The  arrangement  was  founded  on  a  cor- 
re(5l  estimate  of  the  intelle6tual  inequality  of  mankind. 

Demopheles.     To  some  extent  the  education  in   our  lower, 
middle  and  high  schools  corresponds  to  the  varying  grades  of 
initiation  into  the  mysteries. 


26  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

Philalethes.  In  a  very  approximate  way  ;  and  then  only  in 
so  far  as  subje6ls  of  higher  icnowledge  are  written  about  ex- 
clusively in  Latin.  But  since  that  has  ceased  to  be  the  case, 
all  the  mysteries  are  profaned. 

Demopheles.  However  that  may  be,  I  wanted  to  remind 
you  that  you  should  look  at  religion  more  from  the  pra6lical 
than  from  the  theoretical  side.  Personified  metaphysics  may 
be  the  enemy  of  religion,  but  all  the  same  personified  morality 
will  be  its  friend.  Perhaps  the  metaphysical  element  in  all 
religions  is  false  ;  but  the  moral  element  in  all  is  true.  This 
might  perhaps  be  presumed  from  the  fa6l  that  they  all  disagree 
in  their  metaphysics,  but  are  in  accord  as  regards  morality. 

Philalethes.  Which  is  an  illustration  of  the  rule  of  logic  that 
false  premises  may  give  a  true  conclusion.  I 

Demopheles.  Let  me  hold  you  to  your  conclusion  :  let  me 
remind  you  that  religion  has  two  sides.  If  it  can't  stand  when 
looked  at  from  its  theoretical,  that  is,  its  intellectual  side  ;  on 
the  other  hand,  from  the  moral  side,  it  proves  itself  the  only 
means  of  guiding,  controlling  and  mollifying  those  races  of 
animals  endowed  with  reason,  whose  kinship  with  the  ape  does 
not  exclude  a  kinship  with  the  tiger.  But  at  the  same  time 
religion  is,  as  a  rule,  a  sufficient  satisfa6lion  for  their  dull  meta- 
physical necessities.  You  don't  seem  to  me  to  possess  a 
proper  idea  of  the  difference,  wide  as  the  heavens  asunder,  the 
deep  gulf  between  your  man  of  learning  and  enlightenment, 
accustomed  to  the  process  of  thinking,  and  the  heavy,  clumsy, 
dull  and  sluggish  consciousness  of  humanity's  beasts  of  bur- 
den, whose  thoughts  have  once  and  for  all  taken  the  direction 
of  anxiety  about  their  hvelihood,  and  cannot  be  put  in  motion 
in  any  other  ;  whose  muscular  strength  is  so  exclusively 
brought  into  play  that  the  nervous  power,  which  makes  intelli- 
gence, sinks  to  a  very  low  ebb.  People  like  that  must  have 
something  tangible  which  they  can  lay  hold  of  on  the  slippery 
and  thorny  pathway  of  their  life,  some  sort  of  beautiful  fable, 
by  means  of  which  things  can  be  imparted  to  them  which  their 
crude  intelligence  can  entertain  only  in  pi6lure  and  parable. 
Profound  explanations  and  fine  distindlions  are  thrown  away 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  27 

Upon  them.  If  you  conceive  religion  in  this  light,  and  recol- 
le6l  that  its  aims  are  above  all  pra<5lical,  and  only  in  a  subor- 
dinate degree  theoretical,  it  will  appear  to  you  as  something 
worthy  of  the  highest  respe6l. 

Philalethes.  A  respe6l  which  will  finally  rest  upon  the 
principle  that  the  end  sanctifies  the  means.  I  don't  feel  in 
favor  of  a  compromise  on  a  basis  like  that.  Religion  may  be 
an  excellent  means  of  training  the  perverse,  obtuse  and  ill- 
disposed  members  of  the  biped  race  :  in  the  eyes  of  the  friend 
of  truth  every  fraud,  even  though  it  be  a  pious  one,  is  to  be 
condemned.  A  system  of  deception,  a  pack  of  lies,  would  be 
a  strange  means  of  inculcating  virtue.  The  flag  to  which  I 
have  taken  the  oath  is  truth  ;  I  shall  remain  faithful  to  it 
everywhere,  and  whether  I  succeed  or  not,  I  shall  fight  for 
light  and  truth  !     If  I  see  religion  On  the  wrong  side — 

Demopheles.  But  you  won't.  Religion  isn't  a  deception: 
it  is  true  and  the  most  important  of  all  truths.  Because  its  doc- 
trines are,  as  I  have  said,  of  such  a  lofty  kind  that  the  multi- 
tude can't  grasp  them  without  an  intermediary,  because,  I  say, 
its  light  would  blind  the  ordinary  eye,  it  comes  forward  wrapt 
in  the  veil  of  allegory  and  teaches,  not  indeed  what  is  exactly 
true  in  itself,  but  what  is  true  in  respe<5l  of  the  lofty  meaning 
contained  in  it;  and,  understood  in  this  way,  religion  is  the  truth. 

Philalethes.  It  would  be  all  right  if  religion  were  only  at 
liberty  to  be  true  in  a  merely  allegorical  sense.  But  its  con- 
tention is  that  it  is  downright  true  in  the  proper  sense  of  the 
word.  Herein  lies  the  deception,  and  it  is  here  that  the  friend 
of  truth  must  take  up  a  hostile  position. 

Demopheles.  The  deception  is  a  sine  qua  non.  If  religion 
were  to  admit  that  it  was  only  the  allegorical  meaning  in  its 
do6trine  which  was  true,  it  would  rob  itself  of  all  efficacy. 
Such  rigorous  treatment  as  this  would  destroy  its  invaluable 
influence  on  the  hearts  and  morals  of  mankind.  Instead  of 
insisting  on  that  with  pedantic  obstinacy,  look  at  its  great 
achievements  in  the  practical  sphere,  its  furtherance  of  good 
and  kindly  feelings,  its  guidance  in  condudl,  the  support  and 
consolation  it  gives  to  suflering  humanity  in  life  and  death. 


28  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

How  much  you  ought  to  guard  against  letting  theoretical 
cavils  discredit  in  the  eyes  of  the  multitude,  and  finally  wrest 
from  it,  something  which  is  an  inexhaustible  source  of  conso- 
lation and  tranquillity,  something  which,  in  its  hard  lot,  it  needs 
so  much,  even  more  than  we  do.  On  that  score  alone,  religion 
should  be  free  from  attack. 

Philalethes.  With  that  kind  of  argument  you  could  have 
driven  Luther  from  the  field,  when  he  attacked  the  sale  of 
indulgences.  How  many  a  one  got  consolation  from  the  let- 
ters of  indulgence,  a  consolation  which  nothing  else  could  give, 
a  complete  tranquillity  ;  so  that  he  joyfully  departed  with  the 
fullest  confidence  in  the  packet  of  them  which  he  held  in  his 
hand  at  the  hour  of  death,  convinced  that  they  were  so  many 
cards  of  admission  to  all  the  nine  heavens.  What  is  the  use 
of  grounds  of  consolation  and  tranquillity  which  are  constantly 
overshadowed  by  the  Damocles-sword  of  illusion  ?  The  truth, 
my  dear  sir,  is  the  only  safe  thing  ;  the  truth  alone  remains 
steadfast  and  trusty  ;  it  is  the  only  solid  consolation  ;  it  is  the 
indestru6lible  diamond. 

Demopheles.  Yes,  if  you  had  truth  in  your  pocket,  ready 
to  favor  us  with  it  on  demand.  All  you've  got  are  metaphysi- 
cal systems,  in  which  nothing  is  certain  but  the  headaches  they 
cost.  •  Before  you  take  anything  away,  you  must  have  some- 
thing better  to  put  in  its  place.  ' 

Philalethes.  That's  what  you  keep  on  saying.  To  free  a 
man  from  error  is  to  give,  not  to  take  away.  Knowledge  that 
a  thing  is  false  is  a  truth.  Error  always  does  harm  ;  sooner 
or  later  it  will  bring  mischief  to  the  man  who  harbors  it.  Then 
give  up  deceiving  people  ;  confess  ignorance  of  what  you 
don't  know,  and  leave  everyone  to  form  his  own  articles  of 
faith  for  himself  Perhaps  they  won't  turn  out  so  bad,  espe- 
cially as  they'll  rub  one  another's  corners  down,  and  mutually 
rectify  mistakes.  The  existence  of  many  views  will  at  any 
rate  lay  a  foundation  of  tolerance.  Those  who  possess  knowl- 
edge and  capacity  may  betake  themselves  to  the  study  of 
philosophy,  or  even  in  their  own  persons  carry  the  history  of 
philosophy  a  step  further. 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  29 

Demopheles.  That'll  be  a  pretty  business  !  A  whole  nation 
of  raw  metaphysicians,  wrangling  and  eventually  coming  to 
blows  with  one  another  ! 

Philalethes.  Well,  well,  a  few  blows  here  and  there  are  the 
sauce  of  life  ;  or  at  any  rate  a  very  inconsiderable  evil  com- 
pared with  such  things  as  priestly  dominion,  plundering  of  the 
laity,  persecution  of  heretics,  courts  of  inquisition,  crusades, 
religious  wars,  massacres  of  St,  Bartholomew.  These  have 
been  the  result  of  popular  metaphysics  imposed  from  without ; 
so  I  stick  to  the  old  saying  that  you  can't  get  grapes  from 
thistles,  nor  expect  good  to  come  from  a  pack  of  lies. 

Demopheles.  How  often  must  I  repeat  that  religion  is  any- 
thing but  a  pack  of  lies  ?  It  is  truth  itself,  only  in  a  mythical, 
allegorical  vesture.  But  when  you  spoke  of  your  plan  of 
everyone  being  his  own  founder  of  religion,  I  wanted  to  say 
that  a  particularism  like  this  is  totally  opposed  to  human  nature, 
and  would  consequently  destroy  all  social  order.  Man  is  a 
metaphysical  animal, — that  is  to  say,  he  has  paramount  meta- 
physical necessities  ;  accordingly,  he  conceives  life  above  all 
in  its  metaphysical  signification,  and  wishes  to  bring  every- 
thing into  line  with  that.  Consequently,  however  strange  it 
may  sound  in  view  of  the  uncertainty  of  all  dogmas,  agreement 
in  the  fundamentals  of  metaphysics  is  the  chief  thing,  because 
a  genuine  and  lasting  bond  of  union  is  only  possible  among 
those  who  are  of  one  opinion  on  these  points.  As  a  result  of 
this,  the  main  point  of  likeness  and  of  contrast  between  nations 
is  rather  religion  than  government,  or  even  language  ;  and  so 
the  fabric  of  society,  the  State,  will  stand  firm  only  when 
founded  on  a  system  of  metaphysics  which  is  acknowledged 
by  all.  This,  of  course,  can  only  be  a  popular  system, — that 
is,  a  religion  :  it  becomes  part  and  parcel  of  the  constitution 
of  the  State,  of  all  the  public  manifestations  of  the  national 
life,  and  also  of  all  solemn  a6ls  of  individuals.  This  was  the 
case  in  ancient  India,  among  the  Persians,  Egyptians,  Jews, 
Greeks  and  Romans  ;  it  is  still  the  case  in  the  Brahman, 
Buddhist  and  Mohammedan  nations.    In  China  there  are  three 


30  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  j 

faiths,  it  is  true,  of  which  the  most  prevalent — Buddhism — is 
precisely  the  one  which  is  not  protefted  by  the  State  :  still, 
there  is  a  saying  in  China,  universally  acknowledged,  and  of 
daily  application,  that  "the  three  faiths  are  only  one," — that 
is  to  say,  they  agree  in  essentials.  The  Emperor  confesses  all 
three  together  at  the  same  time.  And  Europe  is  the  union  of 
Christian  States  :  Christianity  is  the  basis  of  every  one  of  the 
members,  and  the  common  bond  of  all.  Hence  Turkey,  though 
geographically  in  Europe,  is  not  properly  to  be  reckoned  as 
belonging  to  it.  In  the  same  way,  the  European  princes  hold 
their  place  "by  the  grace  of  God:"  and  the  Pope  is  the 
vicegerent  of  God.  Accordingly,  as  his  throne  was  the  high- 
est, he  used  to  wish  all  thrones  to  be  regarded  as  held  in  fee 
from  him.  In  the  same  way,  too,  Archbishops  and  Bishops, 
as  such,  possessed  temporal  power ;  and  in  England  they 
still  have  seats  and  votes  in  the  Upper  House.  Protestant 
princes,  as  such,  are  heads  of  their  churches  :  in  England,  a 
few  years  ago,  this  was  a  girl  eighteen  years  old.  By  the 
revolt  from  the  Pope,  the  Reformation  shattered  the  European 
fabric,  and  in  a  special  degree  dissolved  the  true  unity  of  Ger- 
many by  destroying  its  common  religious  faith.  This  union, 
which  had  practically  come  to  an  end,  had,  accordingly,  to  be 
restored  later  on  by  artificial  and  purely  political  means.  You 
see,  then,  how  closely  connedled  a  common  faith  is  with  the 
social  order  and  the  constitution  of  every  State.  Faith  is 
everywhere  the  support  of  the  laws  and  the  constitution,  the 
foundation,  therefore,  of  the  social  fabric,  which  could  hardly 
hold  together  at  all  if  religion  did  not  lend  weight  to  the 
authority  of  government  and  the  dignity  of  the  ruler. 

Philaleihes.  Oh,  yes,  princes  use  God  as  a  kind  of  bogey 
to  frighten  grown-up  children  to  bed  with,  if  nothing  else 
avails  :  that's  why  they  attach  so  much  importance  to  the 
Deity.  Very  well.  Let  me,  in  passing,  recommend  our  rulers 
to  give  their  serious  attention,  regularly  twice  every  year,  to 
the  fifteenth  chapter  of  the  First  Book  of  Samuel,  that  they 
may  be  constantly  reminded   of  what  it  means  to  prop  the 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  3I 

throne  on  the  altar.  Besides,  since  the  stake,  that  ultima  ratio 
theologorum,  has  gone  out  of  fashion,  this  method  of  govern- 
ment has  lost  its  efficacy.  For,  as  you  know,  religions  are  like 
glow-worms  ;  they  shine  only  when  its  dark.  A  certain 
amount  of  general  ignorance  is  the  condition  of  all  religions, 
the  element  in  which  alone  they  can  exist.  And  as  soon  as 
astronomy,  natural  science,  geology,  history,  the  knowledge 
of  countries  and  peoples  have  spread  their  light  broadcast, 
and  philosophy  finally  is  permitted  to  say  a  word,  every  faith 
founded  on  miracles  and  revelation  must  disappear ;  and  phi- 
losophy takes  its  place.  In  Europe  the  day  of  knowledge  and 
science  dawned  towards  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century  with 
the  appearance  of  the  Renaissance  Platonists  :  its  sun  rose 
higher  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  so  rich  in 
results,  and  scattered  the  mists  of  the  Middle  Age.  Church 
and  Faith  were  compelled  to  disappear  in  the  same  proportion  ; 
and  so  in  the  eighteenth  century  English  and  French  philoso- 
phers were  able  to  take  up  an  attitude  of  dire6t  hostility  ;  until, 
finally,  under  Frederick  the  Great,  Kant  appeared,  and  took 
away  from  religious  belief  the  support  it  had  previously  en- 
joyed from  philosophy :  he  emancipated  the  handmaid  of 
theology,  and  in  attacking  the  question  with  German  thorough- 
ness and  patience,  gave  it  an  earnest  instead  of  a  frivolous 
tone.  The  consequence  of  this  is  that  we  see  Christianity 
undermined  in  the  nineteenth  century,  a  serious  faith  in  it 
almost  completely  gone  ;  we  see  it  fighting  even  for  bare  • 
existence,  whilst  anxious  princes  try  to  set  it  up  a  little  by 
artificial  means,  as  a  doctor  uses  a  drug  on  a  dying  patient. 
In  this  conne<5lion  there  is  a  passage  in  Condorcet's  ''  Des 
Progres  de  r  esprit  humain,^^  which  looks  as  if  written  as  a 
warning  to  our  age  :  ' '  the  religious  zeal  shown  by  philoso- 
phers and  great  men  was  only  a  political  devotion  ;  and  every 
religion  which  allows  itself  to  be  defended  as  a  belief  that  may 
usefully  be  left  to  the  people,  can  only  hope  for  an  agony 
more  or  less  prolonged."  In  the  whole  course  of  the  events 
which  I  have  indicated,  you  may  always  observe  that  faith  and 
knowledge  are  related  as  the  two  scales  of  a  balance  ;  when  the 


32  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

one  goes  up,  the  other  goes  down.    So  sensitive  is  the  balance 
that  it  indicates  momentary  influences.     When,  for  instance, 
at  the  beginning  of  this   century,   those  inroads  of  French 
robbers  under  the  leadership  of  Bonaparte,  and  the  enormous 
efforts  necessary  for  driving  them   out  and  punishing  them, 
had  brought  about  a  temporary  negledl  of  science  and  conse- 
quently a  certain  decline  in  the  general  increase  of  knowledge, 
the  Church  immediately  began   to   raise   her  head  again  and 
Faith  began  to  show  fresh  signs  of  life  ;   which,  to  be  sure,  in 
keeping  with  the  times,  was  partly  poetical  in  its  nature.     On 
the  other  hand,  in  the  more  than  thirty  years  of  peace  which 
followed,  leisure  and  prosperity  furthered  the  building  up  of 
science   and  the   spread    of  knowledge   in   an  extraordinary 
degree  :   the  consequence  of  which  is  what  I  have  indicated, 
the  dissolution  and  threatened  fall  of  religion.     Perhaps  the 
time  is  approaching  which  has  so  often  been  prophesied,  when 
religion  will  take  her  departure  from  European  humanity,  like 
a  nurse  which  the  child  has  outgrown  :    the  child  will  now  be 
given  over  to  the  instru6lions  of  a  tutor.     For  there  is  no  doubt 
that  religious  do<5lrines  which  are  founded  merely  on  authority, 
miracles  and  revelations,  are  only  suited  to  the  childhood  of 
humanity.     Everyone  will  admit  that  a  race,  the  past  duration 
of  which  on  the  earth  all  accounts,  physical  and  historical, 
agree  in  placing  at  not  more  than  some  hundred  times  the  life 
of  a  man  of  sixty,  is  as  yet  only  in  its  first  childhood. 

Demopheles.  Instead  of  taking  an  undisguised  pleasure  in 
prophesying  the  downfall  of  Christianity,  how  I  wish  you 
would  consider  what  a  measureless  debt  of  gratitude  European 
humanity  owes  to  it,  how  greatly  it  has  benefited  by  the 
religion  which,  after  a  long  interval,  followed  it  from  its  old 
home  in  the  East.  Europe  received  from  Christianity  ideas 
which  were  quite  new  to  it,  the  knowledge,  I  mean,  of  the 
fundamental  truth  that  life  cannot  be  an  end-in-itself,  that  the 
true  end  of  our  existence  lies  beyond  it.  The  Greeks  and 
Romans  had  placed  this  end  altogether  in  our  present  life,  so 
that  in  this  sense  they  may  certainly  be  called  blind  heathens. 
And,  in  keeping  with  this  view  of  life,  all  their  virtues  can  be 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE  33 

reduced  to  what  is  serviceable  to  the  community,  to  what  is 
useful  in  faft.  Aristotle  says  quite  naively,  Those  virtues  must 
,  necessarily  be  the  greatest  which  are  the  most  useful  to  others. 
So  the  ancients  thought  patriotism  the  highest  virtue,  although 
it  is  really  a  very  doubtful  one,  since  narrowness,  prejudice, 
vanity  and  an  enlightened  self-interest  are  main  elements  iu  it. 
Just  before  the  passage  I  quoted,  Aristotle  enumerates  all  the 
virtues,  in  order  to  discuss  them  singly.  They  are  Justice, 
Courage,  Temperance,  Magnifice7ice,  Magnanimity,  Liberality, 
Gentleness,  Good  Sense  and  Wisdom,.  How  different  from  the 
Christian  virtues !  Plato  himself,  incomparably  the  most 
transcendental  philosopher  of  pre-Christian  antiquity,  knows 
no  higher  virtue  than  Justice ;  and  he  alone  recommends  it 
unconditionally  and  for  its  own  sake,  whereas  the  rest  make  a 
happy  life,  vita  beata,  the  aim  of  all  virtue,  and  moral  condu6l 
the  way  to  attain  it.  Christianity  freed  European  humanity 
from  this  shallow,  crude  identification  of  itself  with  the  hollow, 
uncertain  existence  of  every  day, 

coelumque  tueri 
Jussit,  et  ereftos  ad  sidera  tollere  vultus. 

Christianity,  accordingly,  does  not  preach  mere  Justice,  but 
the  Love  of  Mankind,  Compassion,  Good  Works,  Forgiveness, 
Love  of  your  Enemies,  Patience,  Humility,  Resignation,  Faith 
and  Hope.  It  even  went  a  step  further,  and  taught  that  the 
world  is  of  evil,  and  that  we  need  deliverance.  It  preached 
despisal  of  the  world,  self-denial,  chastity,  giving  up  of  one's 
will,  that  is,  turning  away  from  life  and  its  illusory  pleasures. 
It  taught  the  healing  power  of  pain  :  an  instrument  of  torture 
is  the  symbol  of  Christianity.  I  am  quite  ready  to  admit  that 
this  earnest,  this  only  corre6l  view  of  life  was  thousands  of 
years  previously  spread  all  over  Asia  in  other  forms,  as  it  is 
still,  independently  of  Christianity  ;  but  for  European  human- 
ity it  was  a  new  and  great  revelation.  For  it  is  well  known 
that  the  population  of  Europe  consists  of  Asiatic  races  driven 
out  as  wanderers  from  their  own  homes,  and  gradually  settling 
down  in  Europe  ;  on  their  wanderings  these  races  lost  the 
original  religion  of  their  homes,  and  with  it  the  right  view  of 


34  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

life  :  so,  under  a  new  sky,  they  formed  religions  for  them- 
selves, which  were  rather  crude  :  the  worship  of  Odin,  for 
instance,  the  Druidic  or  the  Greek  religion,  the  metaphysical 
content  of  which  was  little  and  shallow.  In  the  meantime  the 
Greeks  developed  a  special,  one  might  almost  say,  an  instin6l- 
ive  sense  of  beauty,  belonging  to  them  alone  of  all  the  nations 
who  have  ever  existed  on  the  earth,  peculiar,  fine  and  exa€i : 
so  that  their  mythology  took,  in  the  mouth  of  their  poets,^  and 
in  the  hands  of  their  artists,  an  exceedingly  beautiful  and 
pleasing  shape.  On  the  other  hand,  the  true  and  deep  sig- 
nificance of  life  was  lost  tO  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  They 
Hved  on  Uke  grown-up  children,  till  Christianity  came  and 
recalled  them  to  the  serious  side  of  existence 

Philalethes.  And  to  see  the  effe6ls  one  need  only  com- 
pare antiquity  with  the  Middle  Age  ;  the  time  of  Pericles, 
say,  with  the  fourteenth  century.  You  could  scarcely  believe 
you  were  dealing  with  the  same  kind  of  beings.  There,  the 
finest  development  of  humanity,  excellent  institutions,  wise 
laws,  shrewdly  apportioned  offices,  rationally  ordered  freedom, 
all  the  arts,  including  poetry  and  philosophy,  at  their  best ; 
the  produ6lion  of  works  which,  after  thousands  of  years,  are 
unparalleled,  the  creations,  as  it  were,  of  a  higher  order  of 
beings,  which  we  can  never  imitate  ;  life  embellished  by  the 
noblest  fellowship,  as  portrayed  in  Xenophen's  Banquet. 
Look  on  the  other  pi(5lure,  if  you  can  ;  a  time  at  which  the 
Church  had  enslaved  the  minds,  and  violence  the  bodies  of 
men,  that  knights  and  priests  might  lay  the  whole  weight  of 
life  upon  the  common  beast  of  burden,  the  third  estate.  There, 
you  have  might  as  right.  Feudalism  and  Fanaticism  in  close 
alliance,  and  in  their  train  abominable  ignorance  and  darkness 
of  mind,  a  corresponding  intolerance,  discord  of  creeds,  re- 
ligious wars,  crusades,  inquisitions  and  persecutions  ;  as  the 
form  of  fellowship,  chivalry,  compounded  of  savagery  and 
folly,  with  its  pedantic  system  of  ridiculous  false  pretences 
carried  to  an  extreme,  its  degrading  superstition  and  apish 
veneration  for  women.  Gallantry  is  the  residue  of  this  venera- 
tion, deservedly  requited  as  it  is  by  feminine  arrogance  ;   it 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  35 

affords  continual  food  for  laughter  to  all  Asiatics,  and  the 
Greeks  would  have  joined  in  it.  In  the  golden  Middle  Age 
the  pra6lice  developed  into  a  regular  and  methodical  service 
of  women  ;  it  imposed  deeds  of  heroism,  cours  (V amour,  bom- 
bastic Troubadour  songs,  etc. ;  although  it  is  to  be  observed 
that  these  last  buffooneries,  which  had  an  intelle6tual  side, 
were  chiefly  at  home  in  France  ;  whereas  amongst  the  material 
sluggish  Germans,  the  knights  distinguished  themselves  rather 
by  drinking  and  stealing  ;  they  were  good  at  boozing  and 
filling  their  castles  with  plunder ;  though  in  the  courts,  to  be 
sure,  there  was  no  lack  of  insipid  love  songs.  What  caused 
this  utter  transformation  ?     Migration  and  Christianity. 

Demopheles.  I  am  glad  you  reminded  me  of  it.  Migration 
was  the  source  of  the  evil ;  Christianity  the  dam  on  which  it 
broke.  It  was  chiefly  by  Christianity  that  the  raw,  wild  hordes 
which  came  flooding  in  were  controlled  and  tamed.  The 
savage  man  must  first  of  all  learn  to  kneel,  to  venerate,  to 
obey  ;  after  that  he  can  be  civilized.  This  was  done  in  Ireland 
by  St.  Patrick,  in  Germany  by  Winifred  the  Saxon,  who  was 
a  genuine  Boniface.  It  was  migration  of  peoples,  the  last 
advance  of  Asiatic  races  towards  Europe,  followed  only  by  the 
fruitless  attempts  of  those  under  Attila,  Zenghis  Khan,  and 
Timur,  and  as  a  comic  afterpiece,  by  the  gipsies, — it  was  this 
movement  which  swept  away  the  humanity  of  the  ancients. 
Christianity  was  precisely  the  principle  which  set  itself  to 
work  against  this  savagery  ;  just  as  later,  through  the  whole 
of  the  Middle  Age,  the  Church  and  its  hierarchy  were  most 
necessary  to  set  limits  to  the  savage  barbarism  of  those  masters 
of  violence,  the  princes  and  knights  :  it  was  what  broke  up 
the  ice-floes  in  that  mighty  deluge.  Still,  the  chief  aim  of 
Christianity  is  not  so  much  to  make  this  life  pleasant  as  to 
render  us  worthy  of  a  better.  It  looks  away  over  this  span  of 
time,  over  this  fleeting  dream,  and  seeks  to  lead  us  to  eternal 
welfare.  Its  tendency  is  ethical  in  the  highest  sense  of  the 
word,  a  sense  unknown  in  Europe  till  its  advent ;  as  I  have 
shown  you,  by  putting  the  morality  and  religion  of  the  ancients 
side  by  sid^  with  those  of  Christendom. 


36  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

Philaleihes.  You  are  quite  right  as  regards  theory  :  but 
look  at  the  pradice  !  In  comparison  with  the  ages  of  Chris- 
tianity the  ancient  world  was  unquestionably  less  cruel  than 
the  Middle  Age,  with  its  deaths  by  exquisite  torture,  its 
innumerable  burnings  at  the  stake.  The  ancients,  further, 
were  very  enduring,  laid  great  stress  on  justice,  frequently 
sacrificed  themselves  for  their  country,  showed  such  traces  of 
every  kind  of  magnanimity,  and  such  genuine  manliness,  that 
to  this  day  an  acquaintance  with  their  thoughts  and  actions  is 
called  the  study  of  Humanity.  The  fruits  of  Christianity  were 
religious  wars,  butcheries,  crusades,  inquisitions,  extermina- 
tion of  the  natives  in  America,  and  the  introdu6lion  of  African 
slaves  in  their  place  ;  and  among  the  ancients  there  is  nothing 
analogous  to  this,  nothing  that  can  be  compared  with  it ;  for 
the  slaves  of  the  ancients,  the  familia,  the  verncSy  were  a  con- 
tented race,  and  faithfully  devoted  to  their  masters'  service, 
and  as  different  from  the  miserable  negroes  of  the  sugar  plarf- 
tations,  which  are  a  disgrace  to  humanity,  as  their  two  colors 
are  distin6l.  Those  special  moral  delinquencies  for  which  we 
reproach  the  ancients,  and  which  are  perhaps  less  uncommon 
now-a-days  than  appears  on  the  surface  to  be  the  case,  are 
trifles  compared  with  the  Christian  enormities  I  have  mentioned. 
Can  you  then,  all  considered,  maintain  that  mankind  has  been 
really  made  morally  better  by  Christianity  ? 

Demopheles.  If  the  results  haven't  everywhere  been  in 
keeping  with  the  purity  and  truth  of  the  do6lrine,  it  may  be 
because  the  dodlrine  has  been  too  noble,  too  elevated  for  man- 
kind, that  its  aim  has  been  placed  too  high.  It  was  so  much 
easier  to  come  up  to  the  heathen  system,  or  to  the  Moham- 
medan. It  is  precisely  what  is  noble  and  dignified  that  is 
most  liable  everywhere  to  misuse  and  fraud  :  abusus  optimi 
pessimus.  Those  high  do6lrines  have  accordingly  now  and 
then  served  as  a  pretext  for  the  most  abominable  proceedings, 
and  for  a6ls  of  unmitigated  wickedness.  The  downfall  of  the 
institutions  of  the  old  world,  as  well  as  of  its  arts  and  sciences, 
is,  as  I  have  said,  to  be  attributed  to  the  inroad  of  foreign 
barbarians.      The   inevitable  result  of  this   inroad   was  that 


RELIGION:    A    DIALOGUE.  37 

ignorance  and  savagery  got  the  upper  hand  ;  consequently 
violence  and  knavery  established  their  dominion,  and  knights 
and  priests  became  a  burden  to  mankind.  It  is  partly,  how- 
ever, to  be  explained  by  the  fa6l  that  the  new  religion  made 
eternal  and  not  temporal  welfare  the  obje6l  of  desire,  taught 
that  simplicity  of  heart  was  to  be  preferred  to  knowledge,  and 
looked  askance  at  all  worldly  pleasure.  Now  the  arts  and 
sciences  subserve  worldly  pleasure  ;  but  in  so  far  as  they  could 
be  made  serviceable  to  religion  they  were  promoted,  and 
attained  a  certain  degree  of  perfe6lion. 

Philalethes.  In  a  very  narrow  sphere.  The  sciences  were 
suspicious  companions,  and  as  such,  were  placed  under  re- 
stri6lions  :  on  the  other  hand,  darling  ignorance,  that  element 
so  necessary  to  a  system  of  faith,  was  carefully  nourished. 

Denwpheles.  And  yet  mankind's  possessions  in  the  way  of 
knowledge  up  to  that  period,  which  were  preserved  in  the 
writings  of  the  ancients,  were  saved  from  destruction  by  the 
clergy,  especially  by  those  in  the  monasteries.  How  would 
it  have  fared  if  Christianity  hadn't  come  in  just  before  the 
migration  of  peoples? 

Philalethes.  It  would  really  be  a  most  useful  inquiry  to  try 
and  make,  with  the  coldest  impartiality,  an  unprejudiced, 
careful  and  accurate  comparison  of  the  advantages  and  disad- 
vantages which  may  be  put  down  to  religion.  For  that,  of 
course,  a  much  larger  knowledge  of  historical  and  psychologi- 
cal data  than  either  of  us  command  would  be  necessary. 
Academies  might  make  it  a  subje6l  for  a  prize  essay. 

Denwpheles.     They'll  take  good  care  not  to  do  so. 

Philalethes.  I'm  surprised  to  hear  you  say  that :  its  a  bad 
look  out  for  religion.  However,  there  are  academies  which, 
in  proposing  a  subject  for  competition,  make  it  a  secret  con- 
dition that  the  prize  is  to  go  to  the  man  who  best  interprets 
their  own  view.  If  we  could  only  begin  by  getting  a  statisti- 
cian to  tell  us  how  many  crimes  are  prevented  every  year  by 
religious,  and  how  many  by  other  motives,  there  would  be 
very  few  of  the  former.  If  a  man  feels  tempted  to  commit  a 
crime,  you  may  rely  upon  it  that  the  first  consideration  which 


•\'~^: 


38  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

enters  his  head  is  the  penalty  appointed  for  it,  and  the  chances 
that  it  will  fall  upon  him  :  then  comes,  as  a  second  considera- 
tion, the  risk  to  his  reputation.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  he  will 
ruminate  by  the  hour  on  these  two  impediments,  before  he 
ever  takes  a  thought  of  religious  considerations.  If  he  gets 
safely  over  those  two  first  bulwarks  against  crime,  I  think 
religion  alone  will  very  rarely  hold  him  back  from  it. 

Demopheles.  I  think  that  it  will  very  often  do  so,  especially 
when  its  influence  works  through  the  medium  of  custom.  An 
atrocious  a<5l  is  at  once  felt  to  be  repulsive.  What  is  this  but 
the  effedl  of  early  impressions?  Think,  for  instance,  how 
often  a  man,  especially  if  of  noble  birth,  will  make  tremendous 
sacrifices  to  perform  what  he  has  promised,  motived  entirely 
by  the  fa<5l  that  his  father  has  often  earnestly  impressed  upon 
him  in  his  childhood  that  "  a  man  of  honor"  or  "  a  gentle- 
man "  or  "a  cavalier  ' '  always  keeps  his  word  inviolate. 

Philalethes.  That's  no  use  unless  there  is  a  certain  inborn 
honorableness.  You  mustn't  ascribe  to  religion  what  results 
from  innate  goodness  of  chara6ler,  by  which  compassion  for  the 
man  who  would  suffer  by  his  crime  keeps  a  man  from  com- 
mitting it.  This  is  the  genuine  moral  motive,  and  as  such 
it  is  independent  of  all  religions. 

Demopheles.  But  this  is  a  motive  which  rarely  affeds  the 
multitude  unless  it  assumes  a  religious  aspect.  The  religious 
asped  at  any  rate  strengthens  its  power  for  good.  Yet  with- 
out any  such  natural  foundation,  religious  motives  alone  are 
powerful  to  prevent  crime.  We  need  not  be  surprised  at  this 
in  the  case  of  the  multitude,  when  we  see  that  even  people  of 
education  pass  now  and  then  under  the  influence,  not  indeed 
of  religious  motives,  which  are  founded  on  something  which 
is  at  least  allegorically  true,  but  of  the  most  absurd  super- 
stition, and  allow  themselves  to  be  guided  by  it  all  their  life 
long  ;  as,  for  instance,  undertaking  nothing  on  a  Friday,  re- 
fusing to  sit  down  thirteen  at  table,  obeying  chance  omens, 
and  the  like.  How  much  more  likely  is  the  multitude  to  be 
guided  by  such  things.  You  can't  form  any  adequate  idea  ol 
the  narrow  limits  of  the  mind  in  its  raw  state  ;   it  is  a  place  oi 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  39 

absolute  darkness,  especially  when,  as  often  happens,  a  bad, 
unjust  and  malicious  heart  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.  People  in 
this  condition — and  they  form  the  great  bulk  of  humanity — 
must  be  led  and  controlled  as  well  as  may  be,  even  if  it  be  by 
really  superstitious  motives  ;  until  such  time  as  they  become 
susceptible  to  truer  and  better  ones.  As  an  instance  of  the 
dire6t  working  of  religion,  may  be  cited  the  fa<5l,  common 
enough,  in  Italy  especially,  of  a  thief  restoring  stolen  goods, 
through  the  influence  of  his  confessor,  who  says  he  won't 
absolve  him  if  he  doesn't.  Think  again  of  the  case  of  an  oath, 
where  religion  shows  a  most  decided  influence ;  whether  it  be 
that  a  man  places  himself  expressly  in  the  position  of  a  purely 
moral  being,  and  as  such  looks  upon  himself  as  solemnly 
appealed  to,  as  seems  to  be  the  case  in  France,  where  the 
formula  is  simply  je  le  jure,  and  also  among  the  Quakers, 
whose  solemn  ^<?a  or  nay  is  regarded  as  a  substitute  for  the 
oath  ;  or  whether  it  be  that  a  man  really  believes  he  is  pro- 
nouncing something  which  may  affed;  his  eternal  happiness, — 
a  belief  which  is  presumably  only  the  investiture  of  the  former 
feeling.  At  any  rate,  religious  considerations  are  a  means  of 
awakening  and  calling  out  a  man's  moral  nature.  How  often 
it  happens  that  a  man  agrees  to  take  a  false  oath,  and  then, 
when  it  comes  to  the  point,  suddenly  refuses,  and  truth  and 
right  win  the  day. 

Philalethes.  Oftener  still  false  oaths  are  really  taken,  and 
truth  and  right  trampled  under  foot,  though  all  witnesses  of 
the  oath  know  it  well  !  Still  you  are  quite  right  to  quote  the 
oath  as  an  undeniable  example  of  the  practical  efficacy  of 
religion.  But,  in  spite  of  all  you've  said,  I  doubt  whether  the 
efficacy  of  religion  goes  much  beyond  this.  Just  think  ;  if  a 
public  proclamation  were  suddenly  made  announcing  the  re- 
peal of  all  the  criminal  laws  ;  I  fancy  neither  you  nor  I  would 
have  the  courage  to  go  home  from  here  under  the  prote6lion  of 
religious  motives.  If,  m  the  same  way,  all  religions  were 
declared  untrue,  we  could,  under  the  protection  of  the  laws 
alone,  go  on  living  as  before,  without  any  special  addition  to 
our  apprehensions  or  our  measures  of  precaution      I  will  go 


40  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

beyond  this,  and  say  that  religions  have  very  frequently  exer- 
cised a  decidedly  demoralizing  influence.  One  may  say 
generally  that  duties  towards  God  and  duties  towards  human- 
ity are  in  inverse  ratio.  It  is  easy  to  let  adulation  of  the  Deity 
make  amends  for  lack  of  proper  behavior  towards  man.  And 
so  we  see  that  in  all  times  and  in  all  countries  the  great  major- 
ity of  mankind  find  it  much  easier  to  beg  their  way  to  heaven 
by  prayers  than  to  deserve  to  go  there  by  their  adlions.  In 
every  religion  it  soon  comes  to  be  the  case  that  faith,  cere- 
monies, rites  and  the  like,  are  proclaimed  to  be  more  agreeable 
to  the  Divine  will  than  moral  a6lions  ;  the  former,  especially 
if  they  are  bound  up  with  the  emoluments  of  the  clergy, 
gradually  come  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  substitute  for  the  latter. 
Sacrifices  in  temples,  the  saying  of  masses,  the  founding  of 
chapels,  the  planting  of  crosses  by  the  road  side,  soon  come  to 
be  the  most  meritorious  works,  so  that  even  great  crimes  are 
expiated  by  them,  as  also  by  penance,  subjedlion  to  priestly 
authority,  confessions,  pilgrimages,  donations  to  the  temples 
and  the  clergy,  the  building  of  monasteries  and  the  like.  The 
consequence  of  all  this  is  that  the  priests  finally  appear  as 
middlemen  in  the  corruption  of  the  gods.  And  if  matters 
don't  go  quite  so  far  as  that,  where  is  the  religion  whose  ad- 
herents don't  consider  prayers,  praise  and  manifold  ad:s  of 
devotion,  a  substitute,  at  least  in  part,  for  moral  condudl? 
Look  at  England,  where  by  an  audacious  piece  of  priestcraft, 
the  Christian  Sunday,  introduced  by  Constantine  the  Great  as 
a  subjedl  for  the  Jewish  Sabbath,  is  in  a  mendacious  way  iden- 
tified with  it,  and  takes  its  name, — and  this  in  order  that  the 
commands  of  Jehovah  for  the  Sabbath,  (that  is,  the  day  on 
which  the  Almighty  had  to  rest  from  his  six  day's  labor,  so 
that  it  is  essentially  the  last  day  of  the  week,)  might  be  applied 
to  the  Christian  Sunday,  the  dies  solis,  the  first  day  of  the 
week  which  the  sun  opens  in  glory,  the  day  of  devotion  and 
joy.  The  consequence  of  this  fraud  is  that  "Sabbath-break- 
ing," or  "the  desecration  of  the  Sabbath,"  that  is,  the 
slightest  occupation,  whether  of  business  or  pleasure,  all  games, 
music,  sewing,  worldly  books,  are  on   Sundays  looked  upon 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE  4I 

as  great  sins.  Surely  the  ordinary  man  must  believe  that  if, 
as  his  spiritual  guides  impress  upon  him,  he  is  only  constant 
in  "  a  stridl  observance  of  the  holy  Sabbath,  "and  is  "  a  regular 
attendant  at  Divine  Service,"  that  is,  if  he  only  invariably 
idles  away  his  time  on  Sundays  and  doesn't  fail  to  sit  two 
hours  in  church  to  hear  the  same  litany  for  the  thousandth  time 
and  mutter  it  in  tune  with  the  others,  he  may  reckon  on  indul- 
gence in  regard  to  those  little  peccadilloes  which  he  occasion- 
ally allows  himself.  Those  devils  in  human  form,  the  slave 
owners  and  slave  traders  in  the  Free  States  of  North  America 
(they  should  be  called  the  Slave  States)  are,  as  a  rule,  orthodox, 
pious  Anglicans  who  would  consider  it  a  grave  sin  to  work 
on  Sundays  ;  and  having  confidence  in  this,  and  their  regular 
attendance  at  church,  they  hope  for  eternal  happiness.  The 
demoralizing  tendency  of  religion  is  less  problematical  than 
its  moral  influence.  How  great  and  how  certain  that  moral 
influence  must  be  to  make  amends  for  the  enormities  which 
religions,  especially  the  Christian  and  Mohammedan  religions, 
have  produced  and  spread  over  the  earth  !  Think  of  the 
fanaticism,  the  endless  persecutions,  the  religious  wars,  that 
sanguinary  frenzy  of  which  the  ancients  had  no  conception! 
think  of  the  crusades,  a  butchery  lasting  two  hundred  years 
and  inexcusable,  its  war  cry  "  It  is  the  will  of  God,''  its  object 
to  gain  possession  of  the  grave  of  one  who  preached  love  and 
sufferance  !  think  of  the  cruel  expulsion  and  extermination  of 
the  Moors  and  Jews  from  Spain  !  think  of  the  orgies  of  blood, 
the  inquisitions,  the  heretical  tribunals,  the  bloody  and  terrible 
conquests  of  the  Mohammedans  in  three  continents,  or  those 
of  Christianity  in  America,  whose  inhabitants  were  for  the 
most  part,  and  in  Cuba  entirely,  exterminated.  According  to 
Las  Cases,  Christianity  murdered  twelve  millions  in  forty 
years,  of  course  all  in  niajorem  Dei  gloriam,  and  for  the  propa- 
gation of  the  Gospel,  and  because  what  wasn't  Christian  wasn't 
even  looked  upon  as  human  !  I  have,  it  is  true,  touched  upon 
these  matters  before  ;  but  when  in  our  day,  we  hear  of  Latest 
News  from  the  Kingdom  of  God,^  we  shall  not  be  weary  of 
*A  missionary  paper,  of  which  the  40th  annual  No.  appeared  in  1856. 


42  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

bringing  old  news  to  mind.     And  above  all,  don't  let  us  forget 
India,  the  cradle  of  the  human  race,  or  at  least  of  that  part  of 
it  to  which  we  belong,  where  first  Mohammedans,  and  then 
Christians,  were  most  cruelly  infuriated  against  the  adherents 
of  the  original  faith  of  mankind.     The  destruction  or  disfigure- 
ment of  the  ancient  temples  and  idols,  a  lamentable,  mischievous 
and  barbarous  a6l,  still  bears  witness  to  the  monotheistic  fury 
of  the  Mohammedans,  carried  on  from  Marmud,  the  Ghaznevid 
of  cursed  memory,  down  to  Aureng  Zeb,  the  fratricide,  whom 
the  Portuguese  Christians  have  zealously  imitated  by  destruc- 
tion of  temples  and  the  auto  da  fe  of  the  inquisition  at  Goa. 
Don't  let  us  forget  the  chosen  people  of  God,  who  after  they 
had,  by  Jehovah's  express  command,  stolen  from  their  old  and 
trusty  friends  in  Egypt  the  gold  and  silver  vessels  which  had 
been  lent  to  them,  made  a  murderous  and  plundering  inroad 
into  "the  Promised  Land,"  with  the  murderer  Moses  at  their 
head,  to  tear  it  from  the  rightful  owners, — again,  by  the  same 
Jehovah's  express  and  repeated  commands,  showing  no  mercy, 
exterminating    the    inhabitants,    women,     children    and    all, 
(Joshua,  ch.  9  and    10).     And  all  this,  simply  because  they 
weren't   circumcised   and    didn't   know  Jehovah,    which  was 
reason  enough  to  justify  every  enormity  against  them  ;  just  as 
for  the  same  reason,  in  earlier  times,  the  infamous  knavery  of 
the  patriarch  Jacob  and  his  chosen  people  against  Hamor, 
King  of  Shalem,  and  his  people,  is  reported  to  his  glory  be- 
cause the   people  were  unbelievers !      (Genesis   xxxiii.    18.) 
Truly,  it  is  the  worst  side  of  religions  that  the  believers  of  one 
religion  have  allowed  themselves  every  sin  against  those  of 
another,  and  with  the  utmost  ruffianism  and  cruelty  persecuted 
them  ;  the  Mohammedans  against  the  Christians  and  Hindoos  ; 
the  Christians  against  the  Hindoos,  Mohammedans,  American 
natives,  Negroes,  Jews,  heretics,  and  others. 

Perhaps  I  go  too  far  in  saying  all  religions.  For  the  sake 
of  truth,  I  must  add  that  the  fanatical  enormities  perpetrated 
in  the  name  of  religion  are  only  to  be  put  down  to  the  adher- 
ents of  monotheistic  creeds,  that  is,  the  Jewish  faith  and  its  two 
branches,  Christianity  and  Islamism.     We  hear  of  nothing  of 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE.  43 

the  kind  in  the  case  of  Hindoos  and  Buddhists.  Although  it 
is  a  matter  of  common  knowledge  that  about  the  fifth  century 
of  our  era  Buddhism  was  driven  out  by  the  Brahmans  from  its 
ancient  home  in  the  southernmost  part  of  the  Indian  peninsula, 
and  afterwards  spread  over  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  Asia,  as 
far  as  I  know,  we  have  no  definite  account  of  any  crimes  of 
violence,  or  wars,  or  cruelties,  perpetrated  in  the  course 
of  it. 

That  may,  of  course,  be  attributable  to  the  obscurity  which 
veils  the  history  of  those  countries  ;  but  the  exceedingly  mild 
charadler  of  their  religion,  together  with  their  unceasing  incul- 
cation of  forbearance  towards  all  living  things,  and  the  fa6l  that 
Brahmanism  by  its  caste  system  properly  admits  no  proselytes, 
allows  one  to  hope  that  their  adherents  ma}'  be  acquitted  of 
shedding  blood  on  a  large  scale,  and  of  cruelty  in  any  form. 
Spence  Hardy,  in  his  excellent  book  on  Eastern  Monackism , 
praises  the  extraordinary  tolerance  of  the  Buddhists,  and  adds 
his  assurance  that  the  annals  of  Buddhism  will  furnish  fewer 
instances  of  religious  persecution  than  those  of  any  other 
religion. 

As  a  matter  of  fa6l,  it  is  only  to  monotheism  that  in- 
tolerance is  essential  ;  an  only  god  is  by  his  nature  a  jealous 
god,  who  can  allow  no  other  god  to  exist.  Polytheistic  gods, 
on  the  other  hand,  are  naturally  tolerant ;  they  live  and  let 
live  ;  their  own  colleagues  are  the  chief  objecls  of  their  suffer- 
ance, as  being  gods  of  the  same  religion.  This  toleration  is 
afterwards  extended  to  foreign  gods,  who  are,  accordingly, 
hospitably  received,  and  later  on  admitted,  in  some  cases,  to 
an  equality  of  rights  ;  the  chief  example  of  which  is  shown  by 
the  fact,  that  the  Romans  willingly  admitted  and  venerated 
Phrygian,  Egyptian  and  other  gods.  Hence  it  is  that  mono- 
theistic religions  alone  furnish  the  spedacle  of  religious  wars, 
religious  persecutions,  heretical  tribunals,  that  breaking  of 
idols  and  destru<5lion  of  images  of  the  gods,  that  razing  of 
Indian  temples,  and  Egyptian  colossi,  which  had  looked  on 
the  sun  three  thousand  years  ;  just  because  a  jealous  god  had 
said,    Thou  shalt  make  no  graven  image. 


44  RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 

But  to  return  to  the  chief  point.  You  are  certainly  rig^ht  in 
insisting  on  the  strong  metaphysical  needs  of  mankind  ;  but 
religion  appears  to  me  to  be  not  so  much  a  satisfa<5lion  as  an 
abuse  of  those  needs.  At  any  rate  we  have  seen  that  in  regard 
to  the  furtherance  of  morality,  its  utility  is,  for  the  most  part, 
problematical,  its  disadvantages,  and  especially  the  atrocities 
which  have  followed  in  its  train,  are  patent  to  the  light  of  day. 
Of  course  it  is  quite  a  different  matter  if  we  consider  the  utility 
of  religion  as  a  prop  of  thrones  ;  for  where  these  are  held  "by 
the  grace  of  God,"  throne  and  altar  are  intimately  associated  ; 
and  every  wise  prince  who  loves  his  throne  and  his  family  will 
appear  at  the  head  of  his  people  as  an  exemplar  of  true  religion. 
Even  Machiavelli,  in  the  eighteenth  chapter  of  his  book,  most 
earnestly  recommended  religion  to  princes.  Beyond  this,  one 
may  say  that  revealed  religions  stand  to  philosophy  exa6lly  in 
the  relation  of  "sovereigns  by  the  grace  of  God,"  to  "the 
sovereignty  of  the  people  ;  "  so  that  the  two  former  terms  of 
the  parallel  are  in  natural  alliance, 

Demopheles.  Oh,  don't  take  that  tone  !  You're  going  hand 
in  hand  with  ochlocracy  and  anarchy,  the  arch  enemy  of  all 
legislative  order,  all  civilization  and  all  humanity. 

Philalethes.  You  are  right.  It  was  only  a  sophism  of  mine, 
what  the  fencing  master  calls  a  feint.  I  retra6^  it.  But  see 
how  disputing  sometimes  makes  an  honest  man  unjust  and 
malicious.     Let  us  stop. 

Demopheles.  I  can't  help  regretting  that,  after  all  the 
trouble  I've  taken,  I  haven't  altered  your  disposition  in  regard 
to  religion.  On  the  other  hand,  I  can  assure  you  that  every- 
thing you  have  said  hasn't  shaken  my  conviction  of  its  high 
value  and  necessity. 

Philalethes.     I    fully   believe   you  ;   for,  as  we  may  read  in 

Hudibras — 

A  man  convinc'd  against  his  will 
Is  of  the  same  opinion  still. 

My  consolation  is  that,  alike  in   controversies  and  in  taking 
mineral  waters,  the  after  effeds  are  the  true  ones. 

Demopheles.     Well,  I  hope  it'll  be  beneficial  in  your  case. 


RELIGION  :  A  DIALOGUE. 


45 


Philalethes.  It  might  be  so,  if  I  could  digest  a  certain  Span- 
ish proverb  : 

Demopheles.    Which  is? 

Philalethes.     Behind  the  cross  stands  the  devil. 

Demopheles.  Come,  don't  let  us  part  with  sarcasms.  Let 
us  rather  admit  that  religion,  like  Janus,  or  better  still,  like  the 
Brahman  god  of  death,  Yama,  has  two  faces,  and  like  him, 
one  friendly,  the  other  sullen.  Each  of  us  has  kept  his  eye 
fixed  on  one  alone. 

Philalethes.     You  are  right,  old  fellow  ! 


A  FEW  WORDS  ON  PANTHEISM. 

THE  controversy  between  Theism  and  Pantheism  might  be 
presented  in  an  allegorical  or  dramatic  form  by  suppos- 
ing a  dialogue  between  two  persons  in  the  pit  of  a  theatre  at 
Milan  during  the  performance  of  a  piece.  One  of  them,  con- 
vinced that  he  is  in  Girolamo's  renowned  marionette-theatre, 
admires  the  art  by  which  the  diredlor  gets  up  the  dolls  and 
guides  their  movements.  "Oh,  you  are  quite  mistaken," 
says  the  other,  "we're  in  the  Teatro  della  Scala  ;  it  is  the 
manager  and  his  troupe  who  are  on  the  stage  ;  they  are  the 
persons  you  see  before  you  ;   the  poet  too  is  taking  a  part." 

The  chief  obje6tion  I  have  to  Pantheism  is  that  it  says 
nothing.  To  call  the  world  ' '  God  ' '  is  not  to  explain  it ;  it 
is  only  to  enrich  our  language  with  a  superfluous  synonym  for 
the  word  "world."  It  comes  to  the  same  thing  whether 
you  say  "the  world  is  God,"  or  "God  is  the  world." 
But  if  you  start  from  ' '  God ' '  as  something  that  is  given 
in  experience,  and  has  to  be  explained,  and  then  say,  "  God 
is  the  world,"  you  are  affording  what  is  to  some  extent  an 
explanation,  in  so  far  as  you  are  reducing  what  is  unknown 
to  what  is  partly  known  {ignotum  per  notius)  ;  but  it  is 
only  a  verbal  explanation.  If,  however,  you  start  from  what 
is  really  given,  that  is  to  say,  from  the  world,  and  say,  "the 
world  is  God,"  it  is  clear  that  you  say  nothing,  or  a.t  least 
you  are  explaining  what  is  unknown  by  what  is  more  unknown. 

Hence,  Pantheism  presupposes  Theism  ;  only  in  so  far  as 
you  start  from  a  god,  that  is,  in  so  far  as  you  possess  him  as 
something  with  which  you  are  already  familiar,  can  you  end 
by  identifying  him  with  the  world  ;  and  your  purpose  in  doing 


A    FEW   WORDS   ON    PANTHEISM.  47 

SO  is  to  put  him  out  of  the  way  in  a  decent  fashion.  In  other 
words,  you  do  not  start  clear  from  the  world  as  something  that 
requires  explanation  ;  you  start  from  God  as  something  that 
is  given,  and  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  him,  you  make 
the  world  take  over  his  role.  This  is  the  origin  of  Pantheism. 
Taking  an  unprejudiced  view  of  the  world  as  it  is,  no  one 
would  dream  of  regarding  it  as  a  god.  It  must  be  a  very  ill- 
advised  god  who  knows  no  better  way  of  diverting  himself 
than  by  turning  into  such  a  world  as  ours,  such  a  mean,  shabby 
world,  there  to  take  the  form  of  innumerable  millions'  who  live 
indeed,  but  are  fretted  and  tormented,  and  who  manage  to 
exist  a  while  together,  only  by  preying  on  one  another  ;  to 
bear  misery,  need  and  death,  without  measure  and  without 
objeft,  in  the  form,  for  instance,  of  millions  of  negro  slaves, 
or  of  the  three  million  weavers  in  Europe  who,  in  hunger  and 
care,  lead  a  miserable  existence  in  damp  rooms  or  the  cheerless 
halls  of  a  factory.  What  a  pastime  this  for  a  god,  who  must, 
as  such,  be  used  to  another  mode  of  existence  ! 

We  find  accordingly  that  what  is  described  as  the  great 
advance  from  Theism  to  Pantheism,  if  looked  at  seriously,  and 
not  simply  as  a  masked  negation  of  the  sort  indicated  above, 
is  a  transition  from  what  is  unproved  and  hardly  conceivable 
to  what  is  absolutely  absurd.  For  however  obscure,  however 
loose  or  confused  may  be  the  idea  which  we  conne6l  with  the 
word  ' '  God, ' '  there  are  two  predicates  which  are  inseparable 
from  it,  the  highest  power  and  the  highest  wisdom.  It  is  ab- 
solutely absurd  to  think  that  a  being  endowed  with  these 
qualities  should  have  put  himself  into  the  position  described 
above.  Theism,  on  the  other  hand,  is  something  which  is 
merely  unprOved  ;  and  if  it  is  difficult  to  look  upon  the  infinite 
world  as  the  work  of  a  personal,  and  therefore  individual, 
Being,  the  like  of  which  we  know  only  from  our  experience  of 
the  animal  world,  it  is  nevertheless  not  an  absolutely  absurd 
idea.  That  a  Being,  at  once  almighty  and  all-good,  should 
create  a  world  of  torment  is  always  conceivable  ;  even  though 
we  do  not  know  why  he  does  so  ;  and  accordingly  we  find 
that  when  people  ascribe  the  height  of  goodness  to  this  Being, 


48  '  A    FEW    WORDS    ON    PANTHEISM. 

I 

they  set  up  the  inscrutable  nature  of  his  wisdom  as  the  refuge 
by  which  the  do6lrine  escapes  the  charge  of  absurdity.  Pan- 
theism, however,  assumes  that  the  creative  God  is  himself  the 
world  of  infinite  torment,  and,  in  this  little  world  alone,  dies 
every  second,  and  that  entirely  of  his  own  will ;  which  is 
absurd.  It  would  be  much  more  correal  to  identify  the  world 
with  the  devil,  as  the  venerable  author  of  the  Deutsche  Theologie 
has,  in  fa6l,  done  in  a  passage  of  his  immortal  work,  where 
he  says,  '  *  Wherefore  the  evil  spirit  and  nature  are  one,  and 
where  nature  is  not  overcome,  neither  is  the  evil  adversary 
overcome. ' ' 

It  is  manifest  that  the  Pantheists  give  the  Sansara  the  name 
of  God.  The  same  name  is  given  by  the  Mystics  to  the  Nir- 
vana. The  latter,  however,  state  more  about  the  Nirvana 
than  they  know,  which  is  not  done  by  the  Buddhists,  whose 
Nirvana  is  accordingly  a  relative  nothing.  It  is  only  Jews, 
Christians,  and  Mohammedans  who  give  its  proper  and  correal 
meaning  to  the  word  "  God." 

The  expression,  often  heard  now-a-days,  ' '  the  world  is  an 
end-in -itself,"  leaves  it  uncertain  whether  Pantheism  or  a  sim- 
ple Fatalism  is  to  be  taken  as  the  explanation  of  it.  But, 
whichever  it  be,  the  expression  looks  upon  the  world  from  a 
physical  point  of  view  only,  and  leaves  out  of  sight  its  moral 
significance,  because  you  cannot  assume  a  moral  significance 
without  presenting  the  world  as  means  to  a  higher  end.  The 
notion  that  the  world  has  a  physical  but  not  a  moral  meaning, 
is  the  most  mischievous  error  sprung  from  the  greatest  mental 
perversity. 


ON  BOOKS  AND  READING. 

IGNORANCE  is  degrading  only  when  found  in  company 
with  riches.  The  poor  man  is  restrained  by  poverty  and 
need :  labor  occupies  his  thoughts,  and  takes  the  place  of 
knowledge.  But  rich  men  who  are  ignorant  live  for  their 
lusts  only,  and  are  like  the  beetsts  of  the  field  ;  as  may  be  seen 
every  day  :  and  they  can  also  be  reproached  for  not  having 
used  wealth  and  leisure  for  that  which  gives  them  their  greatest 
value. 

When  we  read,  another  person  thinks  for  us  :  we  merely 
repeat  his  mental  process.  In  learning  to  write,  the  pupil 
goes  over  with  his  pen  what  the  teacher  has  outlined  in  pencil  : 
so  in  reading ;  the  greater  part  of  the  work  of  thought  is 
already  done  for  us.  This  is  why  it  relieves  us  to  take  up  a 
book  after  being  occupied  with  our  own  thoughts.  And  in 
reading,  the  mind  is,  in  fa6l,  only  the  playground  of  another's 
thoughts.  So  it  comes  about  that  if  anyone  spends  almost  the 
whole  day  in  reading,  and  by  way  of  relaxation  devotes  the 
intervals  to  some  thoughtless  pastime,  he  gradually  loses  the 
capacity  for  thinking ;  just  as  the  man  who  always  rides,  at 
last  forgets  how  to  walk.  This  is  the  case  with  many  learned 
persons  :  they  have  read  themselves  stupid.  For  to  occupy 
every  spare  moment  in  reading,  and  to  do  nothing  but  read, 
is  even  more  paralyzing  to  the  mind  than  constant  manual 
labor,  which  at  least  allows  those  engaged  in  it  to  follow  their 
own  thoughts.  A  spring  never  free  from  the  pressure  of  some 
foreign  body  at  last  loses  its  elasticity  ;  and  so,  does  the  mind 
if  other  people's  thoughts  are  constantly  forced  upon  it.  Just 
as  you  can  ruin  the  stomach  and  impair  the  whole  body  by 
taking  too  much  nourishment,  so  you  can  overfill  and  choke 

(49> 


50  ON    BOOKS   AND   READING. 

the  mind  by  feeding  it  too  much.  The  more  you  read,  the 
fewer  are  the  traces  left  by  what  you  have  read  :  the  inmd 
becomes  hke  a  tablet  crossed  over  and  over  with  writing. 
There  is  no  time  for  rummating,  and  in  no  other  way  can  vou 
assimilate  what  you  have  read.  If  you  read  on  and  on  without 
setting  your  own  thoughts  to  work,  what  you  have  read  can 
not  strike  root,  and  is  generally  lost.  It  is,  in  fad,  just  the 
same  with  mental  as  with  bodily  food  :  hardly  the  fifth  part  of 
what  one  takes  is  assimilated.  The  rest  passes  off  in  evapora- 
tion, respiration  and  the  like. 

The  result  of  all  this  is  that  thoughts  put  on  paper  are 
nothing  more  than  footsteps  in  the  sand  :  you  see  the  way  the 
man  has  gone,  but  to  know  what  he  saw  on  his  walk,  you 
want  his  eyes. 

There  is  no  quality  of  style  that  can  be  gained  by  reading 
writers  who  possess  it ;  whether  it  be  persuasiveness,  imagin- 
ation, the  gift  of  drawing  comparisons,  boldness,  bitterness, 
brevity,  grace,  ease  of  expression  or  wit,  unexpe6led  contrasts, 
a  laconic  or  naive  manner,  and  the  like.  But  if  these  qualities 
are  already  in  us,  exist,  that  is  to  say,  potentially,  we  can  call 
them  forth  and  bring  them  to  consciousness  ;  we  can  learn  the 
purposes  to  which  they  can  be  put ;  we  can  be  strengthened 
in  our  inclination  to  use  them,  or  get  courage  to  do  so  ;  we 
can  judge  by  examples  the  effed  of  applying  them,  and  so 
acquire  the  correct  use  of  them  ;  and  of  course  it  is  only  when 
we  have  arrived  at  that  point  that  we  actually  possess  these 
qualities.  The  only  way  in  which  reading  can  form  style  is 
by  teaching  us  the  use  to  which  we  can  put  our  own  natural 
gifts.  We  must  have  these  gifts  before  we  begin  to  learn  tiie 
use  of  them.  Without  them,  reading  teachers  us  nothing  but 
cold,  dead  mannerisms  and  makes  us  shallow  imitators. 

The  strata  of  the  earth  preserve  in  rows  the  creatures  which 
lived  in  former  ages  ;  and  the  array  of  books  on  the  shelves 
of  a  library  stores  up  in  like  manner  the  errors  of  the  past  and 
the  way  in  which  they  have  been  exposed.     Like  those  creat- 


ON   BOOKS   AND    READING.  5I 

ures,  they  too  were  full  of  life  in  their  time,  and  made  a  great 
deal  of  noise  ;  but  now  they  are  stiff  and  fossilized,  and  an 
obje6l  of  curiosity  to  the  literary  palaeontologist  alone. 

Herodotus  relates  that  Xerxes  wept  at  the  sight  of  his  army, 
which  stretched  further  than  the  eye  could  reach,  in  the  thought 
that  of  all  these,  after  a  hundred  years,  not  one  would  be  alive. 
And  in  looking  over  a  huge  catalogue  of  new  books,  one 
might  weep  at  thinking  that,  when  ten  years  have  passed,  not 
one  of  them  will  be  heard  of. 

It  is  in  literature  as  in  life  :  wherever  you  turn,  you  stumble 
at  once  upon  the  incorrigible  mob  of  humanity,  swarming  in 
all  dire6lions,  crowding  and  soiling  everything,  like  flies  in 
summer.  Hence  the  number,  which  no  man  can  count,  of 
bad  books,  those  rank  weeds  of  literature,  which  draw  nourish- 
ment from  the  corn  and  choke  it.  The  time,  money  and 
attention  of  the  public,  which  rightfully  belong  to  good  books 
and  their  noble  aims,  they  take  for  themselves  :  they  are 
written  for  the  mere  purpose  of  making  money  or  procuring 
places.  So  they  are  not  only  useless  ;  they  do  positive  mis- 
chief Nine-tenths  of  the  whole  of  our  present  literature  has 
no  other  aim  than  to  get  a  few  shillings  out  of  the  pockets 
of  the  public  ;  and  to  this  end  author,  publisher  and  reviewer 
are  in  league. 

Let  me  mention  a  crafty  and  wicked  trick,  albeit  a  profitable 
and  successful  one,  pradised  by  litterateurs,  hack  writers,  and 
voluminous  authors.  In  complete  disregard  of  good  taste  and 
the  true  culture  of  the  period,  they  have  succeeded  in  getting 
the  whole  of  the  world  of  fashion  into  leading  strings,  so  that 
they  are  all  trained  to  read  in  time,  and  all  the  same  thing, 
viz. ,  the  newest  books  ;  and  that  for  the  purpose  of  getting  food 
for  conversation  in  the  circles  in  which  they  move.  This  is 
the  aim  served  by  bad  novels,  produced  by  writers  who  were 
once  celebrated,  as  Spindler,  Bulwer  Lytton,  Eugene  Sue. 
What  can  be  more  miserable  than  the  lot  of  a  reading  public 
like  this,  always  bound  to  peruse  the  latest  works  of  extremely 


52  ON    BOOKS    AND    READING. 

commonplace  persons  who  write  for  money  only,  and  who  are 
therefore  never  few  in  number  ?  and  for  this  advantage  they 
are  content  to  know  by  name  only  the  works  of  the  few 
superior  minds  of  all  ages  and  all  countries.  Literary  news- 
papers, too,  are  a  singularly  cunning  device  for  robbing  the 
reading  public  of  the  time  which,  if  culture  is  to  be  attained, 
should  be  devoted  to  the  genuine  productions  of  literature, 
instead  of  being  occupied  by  the  daily  bungling  of  common- 
place persons 

Hence,  in  regard  to  reading,  it  is  a  very  important  thing  to 
be  able  to  refrain.  Skill  in  doing  so  consists  in  not  taking  into 
one's  hands  any  book  merely  because  at  the  time  it  happens 
to  be  extensively  read  ;  such  as  political  or  religious  pamphlets, 
novels,  poetry,  and  the  like,  which  make  a  noise,  and  may 
even  attain  to  several  editions  in  the  first  and  last  year  of  their 
existence.  Consider,  rather,  that  the  man  who  writes  for 
fools  is  always  sure  of  a  large  audience ;  be  careful  to  limit 
your  time  for  reading,  and  devote  it  exclusively  to  the  works 
of  those  great  minds  of  all  times  and  countries,  who  o'ertop 
the  rest  of  humanity,  those  whom  the  voice  of  fame  points  to 
as  such.  These  alone  really  educate  and  instru<5l.  You  can 
never  read  bad  literature  too  little,  nor  good  literature  too 
much.  Bad  books  are  intelle6lual  poison  ;  they  destroy  the 
mind.  Because  people  always  read  what  is  new  instead  of  the 
best  of  all  ages,  writers  remain  in  the  narrow  circle  of  the  ideas 
which  happen  to  prevail  in  their  time  ;  and  so  the  period  sinks 
deeper  and  deeper  into  its  own  mire. 

There  are  at  all  times  two  literatures  in  progress,  running 
side  by  side,  but  little  known  to  each  other  ;  the  one  real,  the 
other  only  apparent.  The  former  grows  into  permanent  litera- 
ture :  it  is  pursued  by  those  who  live  for  science  or  poetry  ; 
its  course  is  sober  and  quiet,  but  extremely  slow  :  and  it  pro- 
duces in  Europe  scarcely  a  dozen  works  in  a  century  ;  these, 
however,  are  permanent.  The  other  kind  is  pursued  by 
persons  who  live  on  science  or  poetry  ;  it  goes  at  a  gallop, 
with  much  noise  and  shouting  of  partisans  ;  and  every  twelve- 


ON    BOOKS   AND   READING.  53 

month  puts  a  thousand  works  on  the  market.  But  after  a  few 
years  one  asks,  Where  are  they  ?  where  is  the  glory  which 
came  so  soon  and  made  so  much  clamor  ?  This  kind  may  be 
called  fleeting,  and  the  other,  permanent  literature. 

In  the  history  of  politics,  half  a  century  is  always  a  consider- 
able time  ;  the  matter  which  goes  to  form  them  is  ever  on  the 
move  ;  there  is  always  something  going  on.  But  in  the  history 
of  literature  there  is  often  a  complete  standstill  for  the  same 
period  ;  nothing  has  happened,  for  clumsy  attempts  don't 
count.     You  are  just  where  you  were  fifty  years  previously. 

To  explain  what  I  mean,  let  me  compare  the  advance  of 
knowledge  among  mankind  to  the  course  taken  by  a  planet. 
The  false  paths  on  which  humanity  usually  enters  after  every 
important  advance  are  like  the  epicycles  in  the  Ptolemaic 
system,  and  after  passing  through  one  of  them,  the  world  is 
just  where  it  was  before  it  entered  it.  But  the  great  minds, 
who  really  bring  the  race  further  on  its  course  do  not  accom- 
pany it  on  the  epicycles  it  makes  from  time  to  time.  This 
explains  why  posthumous  fame  is  often  bought  at  the  expense 
of  contemporary  praise,  and  vice  versa.  An  instance  of  such 
an  epicycle  is  the  philosophy  started  by  Fichte  and  Schelling, 
and  crowned  by  Hegel's  caricature  of  it  This  epicycle  was  a 
deviation  from  the  limit  to  which  philosophy  had  been  ulti- 
mately brought  by  Kant  ;  and  at  that  point  I  took  it  up  again 
afterwards,  to  carry  it  further.  In  the  intervening  period  the 
sham  philosophers  I  have  mentioned  and  some  others  went 
through  their  epicycle,  which  had  just  come  to  an  end  ;  so 
that  those  who  went  with  them  on  their  course  are  conscious 
of  the  fa6l  that  they  are  exa6lly  at  the  point  from  which  they 
started. 

This  circumstance  explains  why  it  is  that,  every  thirty  years 
or  so,  science,  literature,  and  art,  as  expressed  in  the  spirit  of 
the  time,  are  declared  bankrupt.  The  errors  which  appear 
from  time  to  time  mount  to  such  a  height  in  that  period  that 
the  mere  weight  of  their  absurdity  makes  the  fabric  fall  ;  whilst 
the  opposition  to  them  has  been  gathering  force  at  the  same 


54  ON   BOOKS   AND    READING. 

time.  So  an  upset  takes  place,  often  followed  by  an  error  in 
the  opposite  diredion.  To  exhibit  these  movements  in  their 
periodical  return  would  be  the  true  pradical  aim  of  the  history 
of  literature  :  little  attention,  however,  is  paid  to  it.  And 
besides,  the  comparatively  short  duration  of  these  periods 
makes  it  difficult  to  colle6l  the  data  of  epochs  long  gone  by, 
so  that  it  is  most  convenient  to  observe  how  the  matter  stands 
in  one's  own  generation.  An  instance  of  this  tendency,  drawn 
from  physical  science,  is  supplied  in  the  Neptunian  geology  of 
Werter. 

But  let  me  keep  stricdy  to  the  example  cited  above,  the 
nearest  we  can  take.  In  German  philosophy,  the  brilliant 
epoch  of  Kant  was  immediately  followed  by  a  period  which 
aimed  rather  at  being  imposing  than  at  convincing.  Instead 
of  being  thorough  and  clear,  it  tried  to  be  dazzUng,  hyper- 
bolical, and,  in  a  special  degree,  unintelligible :  instead  of 
seeking  truth,  it  intrigued.  Philosophy  could  make  no  pro- 
gress in  this  fashion  ;  and  at  last  the  whole  school  and  its 
method  became  bankrupt.  For  the  effi-ontery  of  Hegel  and 
his  fellows  came  to  such  a  pass, — whether  because  they  talked 
such  sophisticated  nonsense,  or  were  so  unscrupulously  puffed, 
or  because  the  entire  aim  of  this  pretty  piece  of  work  was  quite 
obvious, — that  in  the  end  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  the 
charlatanry  of  the  whole  business  from  becoming  manifest  to 
everybody  :  and  when,  in  consequence  of  certain  disclosures, 
the  favor  it  had  enjoyed  in  high  quarters  was  withdrawn,  the 
system  was  openly  ridiculed.  This  most  miserable  of  all  the 
meagre  philosophies  that  have  ever  existed  came  to  grief,  and 
dragged  down  with  it  into  the  abysm  of  discredit,  the  systems 
of  Fichte  and  Schelling  which  had  preceded  it.  And  so,  as 
far  as  Germany  is  concerned,  the  total  philosophical  incom- 
petence of  the  first  half  of  the  century  following  upon  Kant  is 
quite  plain  :  and  still  the  Germans  boast  of  their  talent  for 
philosophy  in  comparison  with  foreigners,  especially  since  an 
English  writer  has  been  so  maliciously  ironical  as  to  call  them 
"a  nation  of  thinkers." 

For  an  example  of  the  general  system  of  epicycles  drawn 


ON   BOOKS   AND    READING.  55 

from  the  history  of  art,  look  at  the  school  of  sculpture  which 
flourished  in  the  last  century  and  took  its  name  from  Bernini, 
more  especially  at  the  development  of  it  which  prevailed  in 
France.  The  ideal  of  this  school  was  not  antique  beauty,  but 
commonplace  nature  :  instead  of  the  simplicity  and  grace 
of  ancient  art,  it  represented  the  manners  of  a  French 
minuet. 

This  tendency  becr.me  bankrupt  when,  under  Winkelman's 
direction,  a  return  was  made  to  the  antique  school.  The  his- 
tory of  painting  furnishes  an  illustration  in  the  first  quarter  of 
the  century,  when  art  was  looked  upon  merely  as  a  means  and 
instrument  of  mediaeval  religious  sentiment,  and  its  themes 
consequently  drawn  from  ecclesiastical  subje6ls  alone  :  these, 
however,  were  treated  by  painters  who  had  none  of  the  true 
earnestness  of  faith,  and  in  their  delusion  they  followed  Fran- 
cesco Francia,  Pietro  Perugino,  Angelico  da  Fiesole  and  others 
like  them,  rating  them  higher  even  than  the  really  great 
masters  who  followed.  It  was  in  view  of  this  error,  and  be- 
cause in  poetry  an  analogous  aim  had  at  the  same  time  found 
favor,  that  Goethe  wrote  his  parable  Pfaffenspiel.  This  school, 
too,  got  the  reputation  of  being  whimsical,  became  bankrupt, 
and  was  followed  by  a  return  to  nature,  which  proclaimed 
itself  in  genre  pi6lures  and  scenes  of  life  of  every  kind,  even 
though  it  now  and  then  strayed  into  what  was  vulgar. 

The  progress  of  the  human  mind  in  literature  is  similar. 
The  history  of  literature  is  for  the  most  part  like  the  catalogue 
of  a  museum  of  deformities  ;  the  spirit  in  which  they  keep 
best  is  pigskin.  The  few  creatures  that  have  been  born  in 
goodly  shape  need  not  be  looked  for  there.  They  are  still 
alive,  and  are  everywhere  to  be  met  with  in  the  world,  immor- 
tal, and  with  their  years  ever  green.  They  alone  form  what  I 
have  called  real  literature  ;  the  history  of  which,  poor  as  it  is 
in  persons,  we  learn  from  our  youth  up  out  of  the  mouths  of 
all  educated  people,  before  compilations  recount  it  for  us. 

As  an  antidote  to  the  prevailing  monomania  for  reading 
literary  histories,  in  order  to  be  able  to  chatter  about  every- 
thing, without  having  any  real  knowledge  at  all,  let  me  refer 


56  ON   BOOKS   AND    READING. 

to  a  passage  in  Lichtenberg's  works,  (vol.  II.,  p.  302),  which 
is  well  worth  perusal. 

I  believe  that  the  over-minute  acquaintance  with  the  history  of 
science  and  learning,  which  is  such  a  prevalent  feature  of  our  day,  is 
very  prejudicial  to  the  advance  of  knowledge  itself.  There  is  pleasure 
in  following  up  this  history ;  but  as  a  matter  of  fa6l,  it  leaves  the 
mind,  not  empty  indeed,  but  without  any  power  of  its  own,  just 
because  it  makes  it  so  full.  Whoever  has  felt  the  desire,  not  to  fill  up 
his  mind,  but  to  strengthen  it,  to  develop  his  faculties  and  aptitudes, 
and  generally,  to  enlarge  his  powers,  will  have  found  that  there  is 
nothing  so  weakening  as  intercourse  with  a  so-called  litterateur,  on  a 
matter  of  knowledge  on  which  he  has  not  thought  at  all,  though  he 
knows  a  thousand  little  fafts  appertaining  to  its  history  and  literature. 
It  is  like  reading  a  cookery-book  when  you  are  hungry.  I  believe 
that  so-called  literary  history  will  never  thrive  amongst  thoughtful 
people,  who  are  conscious  of  their  own  worth  and  the  worth  of  real 
knowledge.  These  people  are  more  given  to  employing  their  own 
reason  than  to  troubling  themselves  to  know  how  others  have  em- 
ployed theirs.  The  worst  of  it  is  that,  as  you  will  find,  the  more 
knowledge  takes  the  diredlion  of  literary  research,  the  less  the  power 
of  promoting  knowledge  becomes ;  the  only  thing  that  increases  is 
pride  in  the  possession  of  it.  Such  persons  believe  that  they  possess 
knowledge  in  a  greater  degree  than  those  who  really  possess  it.  It  is 
surely  a  well  founded  remark,  that  knowledge  never  makes  it  posses- 
sor proud.  Those  alone  let  themselves  be  blown  out  with  pride, 
who,  incapable  of  extending  knowledge  in  their  own  persons,  occupy 
themselves  with  clearing  up  dark  points  in  its  history,  or  are  able  to 
recount  what  others  have  done.  They  are  proud,  because  they  con- 
sider this  occupation,  which  is  mostly  of  a  mechanical  nature,  the 
praftice  of  knowledge.  I  could  illustrate  what  I  mean  by  examples, 
but  it  would  be  an  odious  task. 

Still,  I  wish  some  one  would  attempt  a  tragical  history  of 
literature,  giving  the  way  in  which  the  writers  and  artists,  who 
form  the  proudest  possession  of  the  various  nations  which 
have  given  them  birth,  have  been  treated  by  them  during 
their  lives.  Such  a  history  would  exhibit  the  ceaseless  war- 
fare, which  what  was  good  and  genuine  in  all  times  and 
countries  has  had  to  wage  with  what  was  bad  and  perverse. 
It  would  tell  of  the  martyrdom  of  almost  all  those  who  truly 
enlightened  humanity,  of  almost  all  the  great  masters  of  every 


ON   BOOKS  AND   READING.  57 

kind  of  art :  it  would  show  us  how,  with  few  exceptions,  they 
were  tormented  to  death,  without  recognition,  without  sym- 
pathy, without  followers  ;  how  they  lived  in  poverty  and 
misery,  whilst  fame,  honor,  and  riches,  were  the  lot  of  the 
unworthy  ;  how  their  fate  was  that  of  Esau,  who  while  he  was 
hunting  and  getting  venison  for  his  father,  was  robbed  of  the 
blessing  by  Jacob,  disguised  in  his  brother's  clothes,  how,  in 
spite  of  all,  they  were  kept  up  by  the  love  of  their  work,  until 
at  last  the  bitter  fight  of  the  teacher  of  humanity  is  over,  until 
the  immortal  laurel  is  held  out  to  him,  and  the  hour  strikes 
when  it  can  be  said  : 

Der  schwere  Panzer  wird  zum  Flugelkleide 
Kurz  ist  der  Schmerz,  unendlich  ist  die  Freude. 


PHYSIOGNOMYc 

THAT  the  outer  man  is  a  picture  of  the  inner,  and  the  face 
an  expression  and  revelation  of  the  whole  character,  is  a 
presumption  likely  enough  in  itself,  and  therefore  a  safe  one 
to  go  by  ;  evidenced  as  it  is  by  the  {a6\  that  people  are  always 
anxious  to  see  anyone  who  has  made  himself  famous  by  good 
or  evil,  or  as  the  author  of  some  extraordinary  work  ;  or  if 
they  cannot  get  a  sight  of  him,  to  hear  at  any  rate  from  others 
what  he  looks  like.  So  people  go  to  places  where  they  may 
expe6l  to  see  the  person  who  interests  them  ;  the  press, 
especially  in  England,  endeavors  to  give  a  minute  and  striking 
description  of  his  appearance  ;  painters  and  engravers  lose  no 
time  in  putting  him  visibly  before  us  ;  and  finally  photography, 
on  that  very  account  of  such  high  value,  affords  the  most  com- 
plete satisfaftion  of  our  curiosity.  It  is  also  a  fa6l  that  in 
private  life  everyone  criticises  the  physiognomy  of  those  he 
comes  across,  first  of  all  secretly  trying  to  discern  their  intel- 
ledlual  and  moral  charafter  from  their  features.  This  would 
be  a  useless  proceeding  if,  as  some  foolish  people  fancy,  the 
exterior  of  a  man  is  a  matter  of  no  account ;  if,  as  they  think, 
the  soul  is  one  thing  and  the  body  another,  and  the  body 
related  to  the  soul  merely  as  the  coat  to  the  man  himself 

On  the  contrary,  every  human  face  is  a  hieroglyphic,  and  a 
hieroglyphic,  too,  which  admits  of  being  deciphered,  the 
alphabet  of  which  we  carry  about  with  us  already  perfedled. 
As  a  matter  of  faft,  the  face  of  a  man  gives  us  a  fuller  and 
more  interesting  information  than  his  tongue  ;  for  his  face  is 
the  compendium  of  all  he  will  ever  say,  as  it  is  the  one  record 
of  all  his  thoughts  and  endeavors.     And,  moreover,  the  tongue 

tells  the  thought  of  one  man  only,  whereas  the  face  expresses 

(58) 


PHYSIOGNOMY.  59 

a  thought  of  nature  itself :  so  that  everyone  is  worth  attentive 
observation,  even  though  everyone  may  not  be  worth  talking 
to.  And  if  every  individual  is  worth  observation  as  a  single 
thought  of  nature,  how  much  more  so  is  beauty,  since  it  is  a 
higher  and  more  general  conception  of  nature,  is,  in  fa(5l,  her 
thought  of  a  species.  This  is  why  beauty  is  so  captivating  : 
it  is  a  fundamental  thought  of  nature  :  whereas  the  individual 
is  only  a  by-thought,  a  corollary. 

In  private,  people  always  proceed  upon  the  principle  that  a 
man  is  what  he  looks  ;  and  the  principle  is  a  right  one,  only 
the  difficulty  lies  in  its  application.  For  though  the  art  of 
applying  the  principle  is  partly  innate  and  may  be  partly  gained 
by  experience,  no  one  is  a  master  of  it,  and  even  the  most 
experienced  is  not  infallible.  But  for  all  that,  whatever  Figaro 
may  say,  it  is  not  the  face  which  deceives  ;  it  is  we  who  de- 
ceive ourselves  in  reading  in  it  what  is  not  there. 

The  deciphering  of  a  face  is  certainly  a  great  and  difficult 
art,  and  the  principles  of  it  can  never  be  learnt  in  the  abstra<5l. 
The  first  condition  of  success  is  to  maintain  a  purely  objedlive 
point  of  view,  which  is  no  easy  matter.  For,  as  soon  as  the 
faintest  trace  of  anything  subje6live  is  present,  whether  dislike 
or  favor,  or  fear  or  hope,  or  even  the  thought  of  the  impression 
we  ourselves  are  making  upon  the  object  of  our  attention, 
the  chara6lers  we  are  trying  to  decipher  become  confused  and 
corrupt.  The  sound  of  a  language  is  really  appreciated  only 
by  one  who  does  not  understand  it,  and  that  because,  in  think- 
ing of  the  signification  of  a  word,  we  pay  no  regard  to  the 
sign  itself  So,  in  the  same  way,  a  physiognomy  is  correctly 
gauged  only  by  one  to  whom  it  is  still  strange,  who  has  not 
grown  accustomed  to  the  face  by  constantly  meeting  and  con- 
versing with  the  man  himself  It  is,  therefore,  stri6lly  speak- 
ing, only  the  first  sight  of  a  man  which  affords  that  purely 
objedive  view  which  is  necessary  for  deciphering  his  features. 
An  odor  affedls  us  only  when  we  first  come  in  contad  with 
it,  and  the  first  glass  of  wine  is  the  one  which  gives  us  its 
true  taste  :  in  the  same  way,  it  is  only  at  the  first  encounter 
that  a  face  makes  its  full  impression  upon  us.     Consequently 


6o  PHYSIOGNOMY. 

the  first  impression  should  be  carefully  attended  to  and  noted, 
even  written  down  if  the  subje6l  of  it  is  of  personal  importance, 
provided,  of  course,  that  one  can  trust  one's  own  sense  of 
physiognomy.  Subsequent  acquaintance  and  intercourse  will 
obliterate  the  impression,  but  time  will  one  day  prove  whether 
it  is  true. 

Let  us,  however,  not  conceal  from   ourselves  the  fa6l  that 
this  first  impression  is  for  the  most  part  extremely  unedifying. 
How  poor  most  faces  are  !     With  the  exception  of  those  that 
are  beautiful,  good-natured,  or  intelledlual,  that  is  to  say,  the 
very  few  and  far  between,  I  believe  a  person  of  any  fine  feeling 
scarcely  ever  sees  a  new  face  without  a  sensation  akin  to  a 
shock,  for  the  reason  that  it  presents  a  new  and  surprising 
combination  of  unedifying  elements.     To  tell  the  truth,  it  is, 
as  a  rule,  a  sorry  sight.     There  are  some  people  whose  faces 
bear  the  stamp  of  such  artless  vulgarity  and  baseness  of  char- 
a<fter,   such   an   animal    limitation   of   intelligence,    that   one 
wonders  how  they  can  appear  in   public  with  such  a  counte- 
nance, instead  of  wearing  a  mask.     There  are  faces,  indeed, 
the  very  sight  of  which  produces  a  feeling  of  pollution.     One 
cannot,   therefore,  take  it  amiss  of  people,  whose  privileged 
position  admits  of  it,  if  they  manage  to  live  in   retirement  and 
completely  free  from  the  painful   sensation  of   "seeing  new 
faces."     The  metaphysical  explanation  of  this  circumstance 
rests  upon  the  consideration  that  the  individuality  of  a  man 
is  precisely  that  by  the  very  existence  of  which  he  should   be 
reclaimed  and  corrected.     If,  on  the  other  hand,  a  psychologi- 
cal explanation  is  satisfadlory,  let  any  one  ask  himself  what 
kind  of  physiognomy  he  may  expe6l  in  those  who  have  all 
their  life  long,  except  on  the  rarest  occasions,  harbored  nothing 
but  petty,  base  and  miserable  thoughts,   and  vulgar,  selfish, 
envious,  wicked  and  malicious  desires.     Every  one  of  these 
thoughts  and  desires  has  set  its  mark  upon  the  face  during  the 
time  it  lasted,  and  by  constant  repetition,  all  these  marks  have 
in  course  of  time  become  furrows  and  blotches,  so  to  speak. 
Consequently,  most  people's  appearance  is  such  as  to  produce 
a  shock  at  first  sight  ;   and  it  is  6nly  gradually  that  one  gets, 


PHYSIOGNOMY.  6l 

accustomed  to  it,  that  is  to  say,  becomes  so  deadened  to  the 
impression  that  it  has  no  more  effe6l  on  one. 

And  that  the  prevaiHng  facial  expression  is  the  result  of  a 
long  process  of  innumerable,  fleeting  and  characteristic  con- 
tra6lions  of  the  features  is  just  the  reason  why  intelleftual 
countenances  are  of  gradual  formation.  It  is,  indeed,  only  in 
old  age  that  intellectual  men  attain  their  sublime  expression, 
whilst  portraits  of  them  in  their  youth  show  only  the  first 
traces  of  it.  But  on  the  other  hand,  what  I  have  just  said 
about  the  shock  which  the  first  sight  of  a  face  generally  pro- 
duces, is  in  keeping  with  the  remark  that  it  is  only  at  that  first 
sight  that  it  makes  its  true  and  full  impression.  For  to  get  a 
purely  objedlive  and  uncorrupted  impression  of  it,  we  must 
stand  in  no  kind  of  relation  to  the  person  ;  if  possible,  we 
must  not  yet  have  spoken  with  him.  For  every  conversation 
places  us  to  some  extent  upon  a  friendly  footing,  establishes  a 
certain  rapport,  a  mutual  subjective  relation,  which  is  at  once 
unfavorable  to  an  objective  point  of  view.  And  as  everyone's 
endeavor  is  to  win  esteem  or  friendship  for  himself,  the  man 
who  is  under  observation  will  at  once  employ  all  those  arts  of 
dissimulation  in  which  he  is  already  versed,  and  corrupt  us 
with  his  airs,  hypocrisies  and  flatteries  ;  so  that  what  the  first 
look  clearly  showed  will  soon  be  seen  by  us  no  more. 

This  fa(5l  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  saying  that  ' '  most  people 
gain  by  further  acquaintance;"  it  ought,  however,  to  run, 
"  delude  us  by  it."  It  is  only  when,  later  on,  the  bad  qualities 
manifest  themselves,  that  our  first  judgment  as  a  rule  receives 
its  justification  and  makes  good  its  scornful  verdiCl.  It  may 
be  that  "a  further  acquaintance"  is  an  unfriendly  one,  and  if 
that  is  so,  we  do  not  find  in  this  case  either  that  people  gain 
by  it.  Another  reason  why  people  apparently  gain  on  a 
nearer  acquaintance  is  that  the  man  whose  first  aspeCl  warns 
us  from  him,  as  soon  as  we  converse  with  him,  no  longer 
shows  his  own  being  and  charaCler,  but  also  his  education  ; 
that  is,  not  only  what  he  really  is  by  nature,  but  also  what  he 
has  appropriated  to  himself  out  of  the  common  wealth  of  man- 
kind.    Three-fourths  of  what  he  says  belongs  not  to  him,  but 


62  PHYSIOGNOMY. 

to  the  sources  from  which  he  obtained  it ;  so  that  we  are  often 
surprised  to  hear  a  minotaur  speak  so  humanly.  If  we  make 
,  a  still  closer  acquaintance,  the  animal  nature,  of  which  his  face 
gave  promise,  will  manifest  itself  "in  all  its  splendor."  If 
one  is  gifted  with  an  acute  sense  for  physiognomy,  one  should 
take  special  note  of  those  verdidls  which  preceded  a  closer 
acquaintance  and  were  therefore  genuine.  For  the  face  of 
a  man  is  the  exa6l  expression  of  what  he  is  ;  and  if  he  de- 
ceives us,  that  is  our  fault,  not  his.  What  a  man  says,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  what  he  thinks,  more  often  what  he  has  learned, 
or  it  may  be  even,  what  he  pretends  to  think.  And  besides 
this,  when  we  talk  to  him,  or  even  hear  him  talking  to  others, 
we  pay  no  attention  to  his  physiognomy  proper.  It  is  the 
underlying  substance,  the  fundamental  datum,  and  we  disre- 
gard it ;  what  interests  us  is  its  pathognomy,  its  play  of  feature 
during  conversation.  This,  however,  is  so  arranged  as  to  turn 
the  good  side  upwards. 

When  Socrates  said  to  a  young  man  who  was  introduced  to 
him  to  have  his  capabilities  tested,    ' '  Talk  in  order  that  I  may 
see  you,"  if  indeed  by  "seeing"  he  did  not  simply  mean 
"hearing,"   he  was  right,  so  far  as  it  is  only  in  conversation 
that  the  features  and  especially  the  eyes  become  animated,  and 
the  intelle6lual  resources  and  capacities  set  their  mark  upon 
the  countenance.     This  puts  us  in  a  position  to  form  a  provi- 
sional notion  of  the  degree  and  capacity  of  intelligence  ;  which 
was  in  that  case  Socrates'  aim.     But  in  this  connedlion  it  is  to 
be  observed,  firstly,  that  the  rule  does  not  apply  to  moral 
qualities,  which  lie  deeper  ;  and  in  the  second  place,  that  what 
from  an  objective  point  of  view  we  gain  by  the  clearer  develop- 
ment of  the  countenance  in  conversation,  we  lose  from  a  sub- 
jedlive  standpoint  on  account  of  the  personal   relation   into 
which  the  speaker  at  once  enters  in  regard  to  us,  and  which 
produces  a  slight  fascination,  so  that,  as  explained  above,  we 
are  not  left  impartial  observers.     Consequently  from  the  last 
point  of  view  we  might  say  with  greater  accuracy,    "Do  not 
speak  in  order  that  I  may  see  you. ' ' 

For  to  get  a  pure  and  fundamental  conception  of  a  man's 


PHYSIOGNOMY.  63 

physiognomy,  we  must  observe  him  when  he  is  alone  and  left 
to  himself.  Society  of  any  kind  and  conversation  throw  a 
refle6lion  upon  him  which  is  not  his  own,  generally  to  his  ad- 
vantage ;  as  he  is  thereby  placed  in  a  state  of  a(5lion  and 
rea6lioH  which  sets  him  off.  But  alone  and  left  to  himself,  plung- 
ed in  the  depths  of  his  own  thoughts  and  sensations,  he  is 
wholly  himself,  and  a  penetrating  eye  for  physiognomy  can  at 
one  glance  take  a  general  view  of  his  entire  chara<5ler.  For 
his  face,  looked  at  by  and  in  itself,  expresses  the  keynote  of  all 
his  thoughts  and  endeavors,  the  arrH  irrevocable,  the  irrevo- 
cable decree  of  his  destiny,  the  consciousness  of  which  only 
comes  to  him  when  he  is  alone. 

The  study  of  physiognomy  is  one  of  the  chief  means  of  a 
knowledge  of  mankind,  because  the  cast  of  a  man's  face  is  the 
only  sphere  in  which  his  arts  of  dissimulation  are  of  no  avail, 
since  these  arts  extend  only  to  that  play  of  feature  which  is 
akin  to  mimicry.  And  that  is  why  I  recommend  such  a  study 
to  be  undertaken  when  the  subje6l  of  it  is  alone  and  given  up  to 
his  own  thoughts,  and  before  he  is  spoken  to  :  and  this  partly 
for  the  reason  that  it  is  only  in  such  a  condition  that  inspection 
of  the  physiognomy  pure  and  simple  is  possible,  because  con- 
versation at  once  lets  in  a  pathognomical  element,  in  which  a 
man  can  apply  the  arts  of  dissimulation  which  he  has  learned  : 
partly  again  because  personal  contadl,  even  of  the  very  slight- 
est kind,  gives  a  certain  bias  and  so  corrupts  the  judgment  of 
the  observer. 

And  in  regard  to  the  study  of  physiognomy  in  general,  it  is 
further  to  be  observed  that  intelle<5tual  capacity  is  much  easier 
of  discernment  than  moral  chara6ler.  The  former  naturally 
takes  a  much  more  outward  dire6lion,  and  expresses  itself  not 
only  in  the  face  and  the  play  of  feature,  but  also  in  the  gait, 
down  even  to  the  very  slightest  movement.  One  could  per- 
haps discriminate  from  behind  between  a  blockhead,  a  fool  and 
a  man  of  genius.  The  blockhead  would  be  discerned  by  the 
torpidity  and  sluggishness  of  all  his  movements  :  folly  sets  its 
mark  upon  every  gesture,  and  so  does  intelledl  and  a  studious 
nature.     Hence  that  remark  of  La  Bruyere  that  there  is  nothmg 


64  PHYSIOGNOMY. 

SO  slight,  so  simple  or  imperceptible  but  that  our  way  of  doing 
it  enters  in  and  betrays  us  :  a  fool  neither  comes  nor  goes,  nor 
sits  down,  nor  gets  up,  nor  holds  his  tongue,  nor  moves  about 
in  the  same  way  as  an  intelligent  man.  (And  this  is,  be  it  ob- 
served by  way  of  parenthesis,  the  explanation  of  that  sure  and 
certain  instinct  which,  according  to  Helvetius,  ordinary  folk 
possess  of  discerning  people  of  genius,  and  of  getting  out  of 
their  way.) 

The  chief  reason  for  this  is  that,  the  larger  and  more  devel- 
oped the  brain,  and  the  thinner,  in  relation  to  it,  the  spine  and 
nerves,  the  greater  is  the  intellect ;  and  not  the  intellect  alone, 
but  at  the  same  time  the  mobility  and  pliancy  of  all  the  limbs  ; 
because  the  brain  controls  them  more  immediately  and  reso- 
lutely ;  so  that  everything  hangs  more  upon  a  single  thread, 
every  movement  of  which  gives  a  precise  expression  to  its 
purpose. 

This  is  analogous  to,  nay,  is  immediately  conne6led  with 
the  fa6l  that  the  higher  an  animal  stands  in  the  scale  of 
development,  the  easier  it  becomes  to  kill  it  by  wounding  a 
single  spot.  Take,  for  example,  batrachia  :  they  are  slow, 
cumbrous  and  sluggish  in  their  movements  ;  they  are  unintelli- 
gent, and,  at  the  same  time,  extremely  tenacious  of  life  ;  the 
reason  of  which  is  that,  with  a  very  small  brain,  their  spine  and 
nerves  are  very  thick. 

Now  gait  and  movement  of  the  arms  are  mainly  func- 
tions of  the  brain ;  our  limbs  receive  their  motion  and 
every  httle  modification  of  it  from  the  brain  through  the 
medium  of  the  spine. 

This  is  why  conscious  movements  fatigue  us  :  the  sensation 
of  fatigue,  like  that  of  pain,  has  its  seat  in  the  brain,  not, 
as  people  commonly  suppose,  in  the  limbs  themselves  ;  hence 
motion  induces  sleep. 

On  the  other  hand  those  motions  which  are  not  excited  by 
the  brain,  that  is,  the  unconscious  movements  of  organic  life, 
of  the  heart,  of  the  lungs,  etc.,  go  on  in  their  course  without 
producing  fatigue.  And  as  thought,  equally  with  motion,  is  a 
fundlion  of  the  brain,  the  character  of  the  brain's  adlivity  is 


PHYSIOGNOMY.  65 

expressed  equally  in  both,  according  to  the  constitution  of 
the  individual ;  stupid  people  move  like  lay-figures,  while 
every  joint  of  an  intelligent  man  is  eloquent. 

But  gesture  and  movement  are  not  nearly  so  good  an 
index  of  intellectual  qualities  as  the  face,  the  shape  and  size 
of  the  brain,  the  contraction  and  movement  of  the  features,  and 
above  all  the  eye, — from  the  small,  dull,  dead-looking  eye  of 
a  pig  up  through  all  gradations  to  the  irradiating,  flashing  eyes 
of  a  genius. 

The  look  of  good  sense  and  prudence,  even  of  the  best 
kind,  differs  from  that  of  genius,  in  that  the  former  bears 
the  stamp  of  subjection  to  the  will,  while  the  latter  is  free 
from  it. 

And  therefore  one  can  well  believe  the  anecdote  told 
by  Squarzafichi  in  his  life  of  Petrarch,  and  taken  from  Joseph 
Brivius,  a  contemporary  of  the  poet,  how  once  at  the  court  of 
the  Visconti,  when  Petrarch  and  other  noblemen  and  gentle- 
men were  present,  Galeazzo  Visconti  told  his  son,  who  was 
then  a  mere  boy  (he  was  afterwards  first  Duke  of  Milan),  to 
pick  out  the  wisest  of  the  company  ;  how  the  boy  looked  at 
them  all  for  a  little,  and  then  took  Petrarch  by  the  hand  and 
led  him  up  to  his  father,  to  the  great  admiration  of  all  pres- 
ent. For  so  clearly  does  nature  set  the  mark  of  her  dignity 
on  the  privileged  among  mankind  that  even  a  child  can  dis- 
cern it. 

Therefore,  I  should  advise  my  sagacious  countrymen,  if 
ever  again  they  wish  to  trumpet  about  for  thirty  years  a  very 
commonplace  person  as  a  great  genius,  not  to  choose  for  the 
purpose  such  a  beerhouse  keeper  physiognomy  as  was  possess- 
ed by  that  philosopher,  upon  whose  face  nature  had  written, 
in  her  clearest  characters,  the  familiar  inscription,  "  common- 
place person." 

But  what  applies  to  intellectual  capacity  will  not  apply  to 
moral  qualities,  to  character.  It  is  more  difficult  to  discern  its 
physiognomy,  because,  being  of  a  metaphysical  nature,  it  hes 
incomparably  deeper. 

It  is  true  that  moral  character  is  also  conneCted  with  the 


66  PHYSIOGNOMY. 

constitution,  with  the  organism^  but  not  so  immediately  or  in 
such  direfl  connexion  with  definite  parts  of  its  system  as  is 
intelledtual  capacity. 

Hence  while  everyone  makes  a  show  of  his  intelligence 
and  endeavors  to  exhibit  it  at  every  opportunity,  as  some- 
thing with  which  he  is  in  general  quite  contented,  few  expose 
their  moral  qualities  freely,  and  most  people  intentionally 
cover  them  up  ;  and  long  pradtice  makes  the  concealment 
perfe6l.  In  the  meantime,  as  I  explained  above,  wicked 
thoughts  and  worthless  efforts  gradually  set  their  mask  upon 
the  face,  especially  the  eyes.  So  that,  judging  by  physi- 
ognomy, it  is  easy  to  warrant  that  a  given  man  will  never 
produce  an  immortal  work  ;  but  not  that  he  will  never  com- 
mit a  great  crime. 


PSYCHOLOGICAL   OBSERVATIONS. 

FOR  every  animal,  and  more  especially  for  man,  a  certain 
conformity  and  proportion  between  the  will  and  the  intel- 
lect is  necessary  for  existing  or  making  any  progress  in  the 
world.  The  more  precise  and  corred;  the  proportion  which 
nature  establishes,  the  more  easy,  safe  and  agreeable  will  be 
the  passage  through  the  world.  Still,  if  the  right  point  is  only 
approximately  reached,  it  will  be  enough  to  ward  off  destruc- 
tion. There  are,  then,  certain  limits  within  which  the  said 
proportion  may  vary,  and  yet  preserve  a  corre6l  standard  of 
conformity.  The  normal  standard  is  as  follows.  The  obje6l 
of  the  intellect  is  to  light  and  lead  the  will  on  its  path,  and 
therefore,  the  greater  the  force,  impetus  and  passion,  which 
spurs  on  the  will  from  within,  the  more  complete  and  luminous 
must  be  the  intellect  which  is  attached  to  it,  that  the  vehement 
strife  of  the  will,  the  glow  of  passion,  and  the  intensity  of  the 
emotions,  may  not  lead  man  astray,  or  urge  him  on  to  ill  con- 
sidered, false  or  ruinous  adlion  ;  this  will,  inevitably,  be  the 
result,  if  the  will  is  very  violent  and  the  intellect  very  weak. 
On  the  other  hand,  a  phlegmatic  chara6ler,  a  weak  and  lan- 
guid will,  can  get  on  and  hold  its  own  with  a  small  amount  of 
intelled: ;  what  is  naturally  moderate  needs  only  moderate 
support.  The  general  tendency  of  a  want  of  proportion  be- 
tween the  will  and  the  intelledl,  in  other  words,  of  any  varia- 
tion from  the  normal  proportion  I  have  mentioned,  is  to  pro- 
duce unhappiness,  whether  it  be  that  the  will  is  greater  than 
the  intelle6l,  or  the  intelle6l  greater  than  the  will.  Especially 
is  this  the  case  \yhen  the  intellect  is  developed  to  an  abnormal 
degree  of  strength  and  superiority,  so  as  to  be  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  the  will,  a  condition  which  is  the  essence  of  real 

(67) 


68  PSYCHOLOGICAL    OBSERVATIONS. 

genius  ;  the  intelle6l  is  then  not  only  more  than  enough  for 
the  needs  and  aims  of  life,  it  is  absolutely  prejudicial  to  them. 
The  result  is  that,  in  youth,  excessive  energy  in  grasping  the 
objed^ive  world,  accompanied  by  a  vivid  imagination  and  a 
total  lack  of  experience,  makes  the  mind  susceptible,  and  an 
easy  prey  to  extravagant  ideas,  nay,  even  to  chimeras  ;  and 
the  result  is  an  eccentric  and  phantastic  character.  And  when, 
in  later  years,  this  state  of  mind  yields  and  passes  away  under 
the  teaching  of  experience,  still  the  genius  never  feels  himself 
at  home  in  the  common  world  of  every  day  and  the  ordinary 
business  of  life ;  he  will  never  take  his  place  in  it,  and  accom- 
modate himself  to  it  as  accurately  as  the  person  of  normal  in- 
telle6t  ;  he  will  be  much  more  likely  to  make  curious  mistakes. 
For  the  ordinary  mind  feels  itself  so  completely  at  home  in  the 
narrow  circle  of  its  ideas  and  views  of  the  world  that  no  one 
can  get  the  better  of  it  in  that  sphere  ;  its  faculties  remain  true 
to  their  original  purpose,  viz.,  to  promote  the  service  of  the 
will  ;  it  devotes  itself  steadfastly  to  this  end,  and  abjures  ex- 
travagant aims.  The  genius,  on  the  other  hand,  is  at  bottom 
a  monstrum  per  excessum  ;  just  as,  conversely,  the  passionate, 
violent  and  unintelligent  man,  the  brainless  barbarian,  is  a 
monstrum  per  de/enum. 


The  will  to  live,  which  forms  the  inmost  core  of  every  living 
being,  exhibits  itself  most  conspicuously  in  the  higher  order 
of  animals,  that  is,  the  cleverer  ones  ;  and  so  in  them  the 
nature  of  the  will  may  be  seen  and  examined  most  clearly. 
For  in  the  lower  orders  its  adlivity  is  not  so  evident ;  it  has  a 
lower  degree  of  objedlivation  ;  whereas,  in  the  class  which 
stands,  above  the  higher  order  of  animals,  that  is,  in  men, 
reason  enters  in  ;  and  with  reason  comes  discretion,  and  with 
discretion,  the  capacity  for  dissimulation,  which  throws  a  veil 
over  the  operations  of  the  will.  And  in  mankind,  consequent- 
ly, the  will  appears  without  its  mask  only  in  the  affections  and 
the  passions.  And  this  is  the  reason  why  passion,  when  it 
speaks,  always  wins  credence,  no  matter  what  the  passion  may 


PSYCHOLOGICAL    OBSERVATIONS.  69 

be  ;  and  rightly  so.  For  the  same  reason  the  passions  are  the 
main  theme  of  poets  and  the  stalking  horse  of  a6lors.  The 
conspicuousness  of  the  will  in  the  lower  order  of  animals  ex- 
plains the  delight  we  take  in  dogs,  apes,  cats,  etc. ;  it  is  the 
entirely  naive  way  in  which  they  express  themselves  that  gives 
us  so  much  pleasure. 

The  sight  of  any  free  animal  going  about  its  business  undis- 
turbed, seeking  its  food,  or  looking  after  its  young,  or  mixing 
in  the  company  of  its  kind,  all  the  time  being  exadlly  what  it 
ought  to  be  and  can  be, — what  a  strange  pleasure  it  gives  us  ! 
Even  if  it  is  only  a  bird,  I  can  watch  it  for  a  long  time  with  de- 
light ;  or  a  water  rat  or  a  hedgehog  ;  or  better  still,  a  weasel, 
a  deer,  or  a  stag.  The  main  reason  why  we  take  so  much 
pleasure  in  looking  at  animals  is  that  we  like  to  see  our  own 
nature  in  such  a  simplified  form.  There  is  only  one  menda- 
cious being  in  the  world,  and  that  is  man.  Every  other  is  true 
and  sincere,  and  makes  no  attempt  to  conceal  what  it  is,  ex- 
pressing its  feelings  just  as  they  are. 

Many  things  are  put  down  to  the  force  of  habit  which  are 
rather  to  be  attributed  to  the  constancy  and  immutability  of 
original,  innate  chara<5ler,  according  to  which  under  like  cir- 
cumstances we  always  do  the  same  thing  :  whether  it  happens 
for  the  first  or  the  hundredth  time,  it  is  in  virtue  of  the  same 
necessity.  Real  force  of  habit,  as  a  matter  of  fa6l,  rests  upon 
that  indolent,  passive  disposition  which  seeks  to  relieve  the  in- 
telledl  and  the  will  of  a  fresh  choice,  and  so  makes  us  do  what 
we  did  yesterday  and  have  done  a  hundred  times  before,  and 
of  which  we  know  that  it  will  attain  its  obje6l. 

But  the  truth  of  the  matter  lies  deeper,  and  a  more  precise 
explanation  of  it  can  be  given  than  appears  at  first  sight. 
Bodies  which  may  be  moved  by  mechanical  means  only  are 
subje6l  to  the  power  of  inertia  ;  and  applied  to  bodies  which 
may  be  adled  on  by  motives,  this  power  becomes  the  force  of 
habit.  The  actions  which  we  perform  by  mere  habit  come 
about,  in  fa6l,  without  any  individual  separate  motive  brought 


yo  PSYCHOLOGICAL  OBSERVATIONS. 

into  play  for  the  particular  case  :  hence,  in  performing  them, 
we  really  do  not  think  about  them.  A  motive  was  present 
only  on  the  first  few  occasions  on  which  the  ad^ion  happened, 
which  has  since  become  a  habit  :  the  secondary  after- effe<5l  of 
this  motive  is  the  present  habit,  and  it  is  sufficient  to  enable 
the  a6lion  to  continue  :  just  as  when  a  body  has  been  set  in 
motion  by  a  push,  it  requires  no  more  pushing  in  order  to  con- 
tinue its  motion  ;  it  will  go  on  to  all  eternity,  if  it  meets  with 
no  fridlion.  It  is  the  same  in  the  case  of  animals  :  training  is 
a  habit  which  is  forced  upon  them.  The  horse  goes  on  draw- 
ing his  cart  quite  contentedly,  without  having  to  be  urged  on  : 
the  motion  is  the  continued  effect  of  those  strokes  of  the  whip, 
which  urged  him  on  at  first :  by  the  law  of  inertia  they  have 
become  perpetuated  as  habit.  All  this  is  really  more  than  a 
mere  parable  :  it  is  the  underlying  identity  of  the  will  at  very 
different  degrees  of  its  objedtivation,  in  virtue  of  which  the 
same  law  of  motion  takes  such  different  forms. 

^  ?|C  ^  «|C 

Vive  muchos  anos  is  the  ordinary  greeting  in  Spain,  and  all 
over  the  earth  it  is  quite  customary  to  wish  people  a  long  life. 
It  is  presumably  not  a  knowledge  of  life  which  directs  such  a 
wish  ;  it  is  rather  knowledge  of  what  man  is  in  his  inmost 
nature,  the  will  to  live.  i 

The  wish  which  everyone  has  that  he  may  be  remembered 
after  his  death, — a  wish  which  rises  to  the  longing  for  posthu- 
mous glory  in  the  case  of  those  whose  aims  are  high, — seems 
to  me  to  spring  from  this  clinging  to  life.  When  the  time 
comes  which  cuts  a  man  off  from  every  possibility  of  real  ex- 
istence, he  strives  after  a  life  which  is  still  attainable,  even 
though  it  be  a  shadowy  and  ideal  one. 

*  *  *  * 

The  deep  grief  we  feel  at  the  loss  of  a  friend  arises  from  the 
feeling  that  in  every  individual  there  is  something  which  no 
words  can  express,  something  which  is  peculiarly  his  own  and 
therefore  irreparable.      Omne  individuum  ineffabile. 
if.  ^  i(i  % 


PSYCHOLOGICAL  OBSERVATIONS.  7 1 

We  may  come  to  look  upon  the  death  of  our  enemies  and 
adversaries,  even  long  after  it  has  occurred,  with  just  as  much 
regret  as  we  feel  for  that  of  our  friends,  viz. ,  when  we  miss 
them  as  witnesses  of  our  brilliant  success. 

*  *  *  * 

That  the  sudden  announcement  of  a  very  happy  event  may 
easily  prove  fatal  rests  upon  the  fa6l  that  happiness  and  misery 
depend  merely  on  the  proportion  which  our  claims  bear  to 
what  we  get.  Accordingly,  the  good  things  we  possess,  or 
are  certain  of  getting,  are  not  felt  to  be  such  ;  because  all 
pleasure  is  in  fadl  of  a  negative  nature  and  effeds  the  relief  of 
pain,  while  pain  or  evil  is  what  is  really  positive  ;  it  is  the  ob- 
je6l  of  immediate  sensation.  With  the  possession  or  certain 
expe6lation  of  good  things  our  demand  rises,  and  increases 
our  capacity  for  further  possession  and  larger  expedlations, 
But  if  we  are  depressed  by  continual  misfortune,  and  our  claims 
reduced  to  a  minimum,  the  sudden  advent  of  happiness  finds 
no  capacity  for  enjoying  it.  Neutralized  by  an  absence  of 
pre-existing  claims,  its  effe6ls  are  apparently  positive,  and  so 
its  whole  force  is  brought  into  play  ;  hence  it  may  possibly 
break  our  feelings,  i.  e. ,  be  fatal  to  them  And  so,  as  is  well 
known,  one  must  be  careful  in  announcing  great  happiness. 
First,  one  must  get  the  person  to  hope  for  it,  then  open  up  the 
prospedl  of  it,  then  communicate  part  of  it,  and  at  last  make  it 
fully  known.  Every  portion  of  the  good  news  loses  its  efficacy, 
because  it  is  anticipated  by  a  demand,  and  room  is  left  for  an 
increase  in  it.  In  view  of  all  this,  it  may  be  said  that  our 
stomach  for  good  fortune  is  bottomless,  but  the  entrance  to  it 
is  narrow.  These  remarks  are  not  applicable  to  great  mis- 
fortunes in  the  same  way.  They  are  more  seldom  fetal,  be 
cause  hope  always  sets  itself  against  them.  That  an  analogous 
part  is  not  played  by  fear  in  the  case  of  happiness  results  from 
the  fad  that  we  are  instindively  more  inclined  to  hope  than  to 
fear  ;  just  as  our  eyes  turn  of  themselves  towards  light  rather 
than  darkness. 

♦  *  *  * 


72  PSYCHOLOGICAL   OBSERVATIONS. 

Hope  's  the  result  of  coniusing  the  desire  that  something 
should  take  place  with  the  probability  that  it  will.  Perhaps  no 
man  is  free  from  this  folly  of  the  heart,  which  deranges  the 
intelledi's  corredl  appreciation  of  probability  to  such  an  ex- 
tent that,  if  the  chances  are  a  thousand  to  one  against  it,  yet 
the  event  is  thought  a  likely  one.  Still  in  spite  of  this,  a 
sudden  misfortune  is  like  a  death  stroke,  whilst  a  hope  that  is 
always  disappointed  and  still  never  dies,  is  like  death  by  pro- 
longed torture. 

He  who  has  lost  all  hope  has  also  lost  all  fear  ;  this  is  the 
meaning  of  the  expression  "desperate."  It  is  natural  to  a 
man  to  believe  what  he  wishes  to  be  true,  and  to  believe  it  be- 
cause he  wishes  it.  If  this  characSleristic  of  our  nature,  at  once 
beneficial  and  assuaging,  is  rooted  out  by  many  hard  blows  of 
fate,  and  a  man  comes,  conversely,  to  a  condition  in  which  he 
believes  a  thing  must  happen  because  he  does  not  wish  it,  and 
what  he  wishes  to  happen  can  never  be,  just  because  he  wishes 
it,  this  is  in  reality  the  state  described  as  "  desperation." 


That  we  are  so  often  deceived  in  others  is  not  because  our 
judgment  is  at  fault,  but  because  in  general,  as  Bacon  says, 
intelle^lus  luminis  sicci  non  est,  sed  recipit  infusionem  a  volun- 
tate  et  affcHibus :  that  is  to  say,  trifles  unconsciously  bias  us 
for  or  against  a  person  from  the  very  beginning.  It  may  also 
be  explained  by  our  not  abiding  by  the  qualities  which  we 
really  discover  ;  we  go  on  to  conclude  the  presence  of  others 
which  we  think  inseparable  from  them,  or  the  absence  of  those 
which  we  consider  incompatible.  For  instance,  when  we  per- 
ceive generosity,  we  infer  justice  ;  from  piety,  we  infer  hones- 
ty ;  from  lying,  deception  ;  from  deception,  stealing,  etc.  ;  a 
procedure  which  opens  the  door  to  many  false  views,  partly  be- 
cause human  nature  is  so  strange,  partly  because  our  stand- 
point is  so  one-sided.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  character  always 
forms  a  consistent  and  connected  whole  ;  but  the  roots  of  all 
its  qualities  lie  too  deep  to  allow  of  our  concluding  from  particu- 


PSYCHOLOGICAL  OBSERVATIONS.  73 

lar  data  in  a  given  case  whether  certain  qualities  can  or  cannot 
2xist  together. 

*  *  *  * 

We  often  happen  to  say  things  that  may  in  some  way  or 
other  be  prejudicial  to  us  ;  but  we  keep  silent  about  things 
that  might  make  us  look  ridiculous  ;  because  in  this  case  effe<5l 
follows  very  quickly  on  cause. 

*  *  *  * 

The  pain  of  an  unfulfilled  wish  is  small  in  comparison  with 
that  of  repentance  ;  for  the  one  stands  in  the  presence  of  the 
vast  open  future,  whilst  the  other  has  the  irrevocable  past 
closed  behind  it. 

1*  •P  ^F  *l*  ' 

Geduld,  patientia,  patience,  especially  the  Spanish  su/rimi- 
ento,  is  strongly  conne6led  with  the  notion  of  suffering.  It  is 
therefore  a  passive  state,  just  as  the  opposite  is  an  a6live  state 
of  the  mind,  with  which,  when  great,  patience  is  incompatible. 
It  is  the  innate  virtue  of  phlegmatic,  indolent,  and  spiritless 
people,  as  also  of  women.  But  that  it  is  nevertheless  so  very 
useful  and  necessary  is  a  sign  that  the  world  is  very  badly 
constituted. 

*  *  *  * 

Money  is  human  happiness  in  the  abstra<ft  :  he,  then,  who 
is  no  longer  capable  of  enjoying  human  happiness  in  the  con- 
crete, devotes  his  heart  entirely  to  money. 

*  *  *  * 

Obstinacy  is  the  result  of  the  will  forcing  itself  into  the 
place  of  the  intelle<5l. 

*  *  *  * 

If  you  want  to  find  out  your  real  opinion  of  anyone,  ob- 
serve the  impression  made  upon  you  by  the  first  sight  of 
a  letter  from  him. 

*  *  *  ♦ 

The  course  of  our  individual  life  and  the  events  in  it,  as  far 
as  their  true  meaning  and  connection  is  concerned,  may  be 


74  PSYCHOLOGICAL  OBSERVATIONS. 

compared  to  a  piece  of  rough  mosaic.  So  long  as  you  stand 
close  in  front  of  it,  you  cannot  get  a  right  view  of  the  objeAs 
presented,  nor  perceive  their  significance  or  beauty.  Both 
come  in  sight  only  when  you  stand  a  little  way  off.  And  in 
the  same  way  you  often  understand  the  true  conne<5lion  of  im- 
portant events  in  your  life,  not  while  they  are  going  on,  nor  soon 
after  they  are  past,  but  only  a  considerable  time  afterwards. 

Is  this  so,  because  we  require  the  magnifying  effe6l  of  imag- 
ination ?  or  because  we  can  get  a  general  view  only  from  a  dis- 
tance ?  or  because  the  school  of  experience  makes  our  judgment 
ripe  ?  Perhaps  all  of  these  together  :  but  it  is  certain  that  we 
often  view  in  the  right  light  the  a6lions  of  others,  and  occa- 
sionally even  our  own,  only  after  the  lapse  of  years.  And  as 
it  is  in  one's  own  life,  so  it  is  in  history. 

*  *  *  * 

Happy  circumstances  in  life  are  like  certain  groups  of  trees. 
Seen  from  a  distance  they  look  very  well  :  but  go  up  to  them 
and  amongst  them,  and  the  beauty  vanishes  ;  you  don't  know 
where  it  can  be  ;  it  is  only  trees  you  see.  And  so  it  is  that 
we  often  envy  the  lot  of  others. 

*  *  *  » 

The  dodor  sees  all  the  weakness  of  mankind,  the  lawyer  all 
the  wickedness,  the  theologian  all  the  stupidity. 

*  *  *  « 

A  person  of  phlegmatic  disposition  who  is  a  blockhead, 
would,  with  a  sanguine  nature,  be  a  fool. 

*  *  *  * 

Now  and  then  one  learns  something,  but  one  forgets  the 
whole  day  long. 

Moreover  our  memory  is  like  a  sieve,  the  holes  of  which  in 
time  get  larger  and  larger  :  the  older  we  get,  the  quicker  any- 
thing entrusted  to  it  slips  from  the  memory,  whereas,  what 
was  fixed  fast  in  it  in  early  days  is  there  still.  The  memory  of 
an  old  man  gets  clearer  and  clearer,  the  further  it  goes  back, 


PSYCHOLOGICAL   OBSERVATIONS.  75 

and  less  clear  the  nearer  it  approaches  the  present  time  ;  so 
that  his  memory,  like  his  eyes,  becomes  short-sighted. 

3|C  ^  3|C  *^ 

In  the  process  of  learning  you  may  be  apprehensive  about 
bewildering  and  confusing  the  memory,  but  not  about  over- 
loading it,  in  the  stri6l  sense  of  the  word.  The  faculty  for  re- 
membering is  not  diminished  in  proportion  to  what  one  has 
learnt,  just  as  little  as  the  number  of  moulds  in  which  you  cast 
sand,  lessens  its  capacity  for  being  cast  in  new  moulds.  In  this 
sense  the  memory  is  bottomless.  And  yet  the  greater  and 
more  various  anyone's  knowledge,  the  longer  he  takes  to  find 
out  anything  that  may  suddenly  be  asked  him  ;  because  he  is 
like  a  shopkeeper  who  has  to  get  the  article  wanted  from  a 
large  and  multifarious  store  ;  or,  more  striftly  speaking,  be- 
cause out  of  many  possible  trains  of  thought  he  has  to  recall 
exadly  that  one  which,  as  a  result  of  previous  training,  leads 
to  the  matter  in  question.  For  the  memory  is  not  a  repository 
of  things  you  wish  to  preserve,  but  a  mere  dexterity  of  the 
intelle<5tual  powers  ;  hence  the  mind  always  contains  its  sum  of 
knowledge  only  potentially,  never  a6lually. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  my  memory  will  not  reproduce 
some  word  in  a  foreign  language,  or  a  name,  or  some  artistic 
expression,  although  I  know  it  very  well.  After  I  have  bother- 
ed myself  in  vain  about  it  for  a  longer  or  a  shorter  time,  I  give 
up  thinking  about  it  altogether.  An  hour  or  two  afterwards, 
in  rare  cases  even  later  still,  sometimes  only  after  four  or  five 
weeks,  the  word  I  was  trying  to  recall  occurs  to  me  while  I  am 
thinking  of  something  else,  as  suddenly  as  if  some  one  had 
whispered  it  to  me.  After  noticing  this  phenomenon  with 
wonder  for  very  many  years,  I  have  come  to  think  that  the 
probable  explanation  of  it  is  as  follows.  After  the  troublesome 
and  unsuccessful  search,  my  will  retains  its  craving  to  know  the 
word,  and  so  sets  a  watch  for  it  in  the  intelle<5l.  Later  on,  in 
the  course  and  play  of  thought,  some  word  by  chance  occurs 
having  the  same  initial  letters  or  some  other  resemblance  to  the 
word  which  is  sought ;  then  the  sentinel  springs  forward  and 


76  PSYCHOLOGICAL    OBSERVATIONS. 

supplies  what  is  wanting  to  make  up  the  word,  seizes  it,  and 
suddenly  brings  it  up  in  triumph,  without  my  knowing  where 
and  how  he  got  it ;  so  it  seems  as  if  some  one  had  whispered 
it  to  me.  It  is  the  same  process  as  that  adopted  by  a  teacher 
towards  a  child  who  cannot  repeat  a  word  ;  the  teacher  just 
suggests  the  first  letter  of  the  word,  or  even  the  second  too  ; 
then  the  child  remembers  it.  In  default  of  this  process,  you 
can  end  by  going  methodically  through  all  the  letters  of  the 
alphabet. 


In  the  ordinary  man,  injustice  rouses  a  passionate  desire  for 
vengeance  ;  and  it  has  often  been  said  that  vengeance  is  sweet. 
How  many  sacrifices  have  been  made  just  to  enjoy  the  feeling 
of  vengeance,  without  any  intention  of  causing  an  amount  of 
injury  equivalent  to  what  one  has  suffered.  The  bitter  death 
of  the  centaur  Nessus  was  sweetened  by  the  certainty  that  he 
had  used  his  last  moments  to  work  out  an  extremely  clever 
vengeance.  Walter  Scott  expresses  the  same  human  inclina- 
tion in  language  as  true  as  it  is  strong:  "  Vengeance  is  the 
sweetest  morsel  to  the  mouth  that  ever  was  cooked  in  hell ! ' ' 
I  shall  now  attempt  a  psychological  explanation  of  it. 

Suffering  which  falls  to  our  lot  in  the  course  of  nature,  or  by 
chance,  or  fate,  does  not,  ceteris  paribus,  seem  so  painful  as 
suffering  which  is  inflifted  on  us  by  the  arbitrary  will  of  an- 
other. This  is  because  we  look  upon  nature  and  chance  as 
the  fundamental  masters  of  the  world  ;  we  see  that  the  blow 
we  received  from  them  might  just  as  well  have  feillen  on  an- 
other. In  the  case  of  suffering  which  springs  from  this  source, 
we  bewail  the  common  lot  of  humanity  rather  than  our  own 
misfortune.  But  that  it  is  the  arbitrary  will  of  another  which 
inflidls  the  suffering,  is  a  peculiarly  bitter  addition  to  the  pain 
or  injury  it  causes,  viz. ,  the  consciousness  that  some  one  else 
is  superior  to  us,  whether  by  force  or  cunning,  while  we  lie 
helpless.  If  amends  are  possible,  amends  heal  the  injury  ;  but 
that  bitter  addition,  "  and  it  was  you  who  did  that  to  me," 
which  is  often  more  painful  than  the  injury  itself,  is  only  to  be 


PSYCHOLOGICAL    OBSERVATIONS.  77 

neutralized  by  vengeance.  By  infli<5ling  injury  on  the  one  who 
has  injured  us,  whether  we  do  it  by  force  or  cunning,  is  to 
show  our  superiority  to  him,  and  to  annul  the  proof  of  his 
superiority  to  us.  That  gives  our  hearts  the  satisfaction  to- 
wards which  it  yearns.  So  where  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
pride  or  vanity,  there  also  will  there  be  a  great  desire  of 
vengeance.  But  as  the  fulfillment  of  every  wish  brings  with  it 
more  or  less  of  a  sense  of  disappointment,  so  it  is  with  ven- 
geance. The  delight  we  hope  to  get  from  it  is  mostly  embit- 
tered by  compassion.  Vengeance  taken  will  often  tear  the 
heart  and  torment  the  conscience  :  the  motive  to  it  is  no 
longer  a6tive,  and  what  remains  is  the  evidence  of  our  malice. 


Tnr.s, 


THE   CHRISTIAN   SYSTEM. 

WHEN  the  Church  says  that,  in  the  dogmas  of  religion, 
reason  is  totally  incompetent  and  blind,  and  its  use  to 
be  reprehended,  it  is  in  reality  attesting  the  fa6l  that  these 
dogmas  are  allegorical  in  their  nature,  and  are  not  to  be  judg- 
ed by  the  standard  which  reason,  taking  all  things  sensu  proprio^ 
can  alone  apply.  Now  the  absurdities  of  a  dogma  are  just  the 
mark  and  sign  of  what  is  allegorical  and  mythical  in  it.  In  the 
case  under  consideration,  however,  the  absurdities  spring  from 
the  facft  that  two  such  heterogeneous  do6lrines  as  those  of  the 
Old  and  New  Testaments  had  to  be  combined.  The  great 
allegory  was  of  gradual  growth.  Suggested  by  external  and 
adventitious  circumstances,  it  was  developed  by  the  interpreta- 
tion put  upon  them,  an  interpretation  in  quiet  touch  with 
certain  deep-lying  truths  only  half  realized.  The  allegory  was 
finally  completed  by  Augustine,  who  penetrated  deepest  into 
its  meaning,  and  so  was  able  to  conceive  it  as  a  systematic 
whole  and  supply  its  defers.  Hence  the  Augustinian  doArine, 
confirmed  by  Luther,  is  the  complete  form  of  Christianity  ;  and 
the  Protestants  of  to-day,  who  take  Revelation  sensu  propria 
and  confine  it  to  a  single  individual,  are  in  error  in  looking 
upon  the  first  beginnings  of  Christianity  as  its  most  perfe6l  ex- 
pression. But  the  bad  thing  about  all  religions  is  that,  instead 
of  being  able  to  confess  their  allegorical  nature,  they  have  to 
conceal  it ;  accordingly,  they  parade  their  do6lrines  in  all 
seriousness  as  true  sensu  propria,  and  as  absurdities  form  an 
essential  part  of  these  do6lrines,  you  have  the  great  mischief  of 
a  continual  fraud.  And,  what  is  worse,  the  day  arrives  when 
they  are  no  longer  true  sensu  propria,  and  then  ;here  is  an  end 

of  them  ;  so  that,  in  that  respe6l,  it  would  be  better  to  admit 

(78) 


THE    CHRISTIAN    SYSTEM.  79 

their  allegorical  nature  at  once.  But  the  difficulty  is  to  teach 
the  multitude  that  something  can  be  both  true  and  untrue  at 
the  same  time.  And  as  all  religions  are  in  a  greater  or  less 
degree  of  this  nature,  we  must  recognize  the  fa6l  that  mankind 
cannot  get  on  without  a  certain  amount  of  absurdity,  that  ab- 
surdity is  an  element  in  its  existence,  and  illusion  indispens- 
able ;  as  indeed  other  aspects  of  life  testify. 

I  have  said  that  the  combination  of  the  Old  Testament  with 
the    New  gives   rise  to   absurdities.      Among   the   examples 
which  illustrate  what  I  mean,  I  may  cite  the  Christian  doctrine 
of  Predestination  and  Grace,  as  formulated  by  Augustine  and 
adopted  from  him  by  Luther ;  according  to  which  one  man  is 
endowed  with  grace  and  another  is  not.     Grace,  then,  comes 
to  be  a  privilege  received  at  birth  and  brought  ready  into  the 
world  ;  a  privilege,  too,  in  a  matter  second  to  none  in  import- 
ance.    What  is  obnoxious  and  absurd  in  this  do6trine  may  be 
traced  to  the  idea  contained  in  the  Old  Testament,  that  man  is 
the  creation  of  an  external  will,  which  called  him  into  exist- 
ence out  of  nothing.      It  is  quite  true  that  genuine    moral  ex- 
cellence is  really  innate  ;  but  the   meaning  of  the  Christian 
doctrine  is  expressed  in  another  and  more  rational  way  by  the 
theory  of  metempsychosis,  common  to  Brahmans  and  Budd- 
hists.    According  to  this  theory,  the  qualities  which  distin- 
guish one  man  from  another  are  received  at  birth,  are  brought, 
that  is  to  say,  from  another  world  and  a  former  life  ;  these 
qualities  are  not  an  external  gift  of  grace,  but  are  the  fruits  of 
the  a6ts  committed  in  that  other  world.      But   Augustine's 
dogma  of  Predestination  is  connected  with  another  dogma, 
namely,  that  the  mass  of  humanity  is  corrupt  and  doomed  to 
eternal  damnation,  that  very  few  will  be  found  righteous  and 
attain  salvation,  and  that  only  in   consequence  of  the  gift  of 
grace,  and  because  they  are  predestined  to  be  saved  ;  whilst 
the  remainder  will  be  overwhelmed  by  the  perdition  they  have 
deserved,  viz.,  eternal  torment  in  hell.     Taken  in  its  ordinary 
meaning,  the  dogma  is  revolting,  for  it  comes  to  this  ;  it  con- 
demns a  man,  who  may  be,  perhaps,  scarcely  twenty  years  of 


8o  THE    CHRISTIAN    SYSTEM. 

age,  to  expiate  his  errors,  or  even  his  unbelief,  in  everlasting 
torment ;  nay,  more,  it  makes  this  almost  universal  damnation 
the  natural  effe6i  of  original  sin,  and  therefore  the  necessary 
consequence  of  the  Fall.  This  is  a  result  which  must  have  been 
foreseen  by  him  who  made  mankind,  and  who,  in  the  first 
place,  made  them  not  better  than  they  are,  and  secondly,  set 
a  trap  for  them  into  which  he  must  have  known  they  would 
fall  ;  for  he  made  the  whole  world,  and  nothing  is  hidden  from 
him.  According  to  this  doctrine,  then,  God  created  out  of 
nothing  a  weak  race  prone  to  sin,  in  order  to  give  them  over 
to  endless  torment.  And,  as  a  last  chara6leristic,  we  are  told 
that  this  God,  who  prescribes  forbearance  and  forgiveness  of 
every  fault,  exercises  none  himself,  but  does  the  exa<5l  opposite ; 
for  a  punishment  which  comes  at  the  end  of  all  things,  when 
the  world  is  over  and  done  with,  cannot  have  for  its  obje6l 
either  to  improve  or  deter,  and  is  therefore  pure  vengeance. 
So  that,  on  this  view,  the  whole  race  is  adlually  destined  to 
eternal  torture  and  damnation,  and  created  expressly  for  this 
end,  the  only  exception  being  those  few  persons  who  are 
rescued  by  ele<5lion  of  grace,  from  what  motive  one  does  not 
know. 

Putting  these  aside,  it  looks  as  if  the  Blessed  Lord  had  creat- 
ed the  world  for  the  benefit  of  the  devil  !  it  would  have  been  so 
much  better  not  to  have  made  it  at  all.  So  much,  then,  for  a 
dogma  taken  sensu  propria.  But  look  at  it  sensu  allegorico, 
and  the  whole  matter  becomes  capable  of  a  satisfactory  inter- 
pretation. What  is  absurd  and  revolting  in  this  dogma  is,  in 
the  main,  as  I  said,  the  simple  outcome  of  Jewish  theism,  with 
its  "creation  out  of  nothing,"  and  the  really  foolish  and 
paradoxical  denial  of  the  doctrine  of  metempsychosis  which  is 
mvolved  in  that  idea,  a  dodtrine  which  is  natural,  to  a  certain 
extent  self-evident,  and,  with  the  exception  of  the  Jews,  accept- 
ed by  nearly  the  whole  human  race  at  all  times.  To  remove 
the  enormous  evil  arising  from  Augustine's  dogma,  and  to 
modify  its  revolting  nature,  Pope  Gregory  I.,  in  the  sixth 
century,  very  prudently  matured  the  dodlrine  of  Purgatory,  the 
essence  of  which  already  existed  in  Origen,  (cf  Bayle's  article 


THE    CHRISTIAN    SYSTEM.  8l 

on  Origen,  note  B.)    The  do6lrine  was  regularly  incorporated 
into  the  faith  of  the  Church,  so  that  the  original  view  was 
much   modified,    and  a  certain  substitute   provided   for  the 
doctrine  of  metempsychosis  ;  for  both  the  one  and  the  other 
admit  a  process  of  purification.     To  the  same  end,  the  doc- 
trine of  ' '  the  Restoration  of  all  things ' '  (dTroKaTaardmc)  was 
established,  according  to  which,  in  the  last  adl  of  the  Human 
Comedy,  the  sinners  one  and  all  will  be  reinstated  in  integrum. 
It  is  only  Protestants,  with  their  obstinate  belief  in  the  Bible, 
who  cannot  be  induced  to  give  up  eternal  punishment  in  hell. 
If  one  were  spiteful,  one  might  say,   "  much  good  may  it  do 
them,"  but  it  is  consoling  to  think  that  they  really  do  not  be- 
lieve the  do6lrine  ;  they  leave  it  alone,  thinking  in  their  hearts, 
"  It  can't  be  so  bad  as  all  that." 

The  rigid  and  systematic  chara6ler  of  his  mind  led  Augustine, 
in  his  austere  dogmatism  and  his  resolute  definition  of  doctrines 
only  just  indicated  in  the  Bible  and,  as  a  matter  of  fa(5t,  resting 
on  very  vague  grounds,  to  give  hard  outlines  to  these  doc- 
trines and  to  put  a  harsh  construction  on  Christianity  :  the  re- 
sult of  which  is  that  his  views  offend  us,  and  just  as  in  his  day 
Pelagianism  arose  to  combat  them,  so  now  in  our  day  Rational- 
ism does  the  same.  Take,  for  example,  the  case  as  he  states 
it  generally  in  the  De  Civitate  Dei.  Bk.  xii.  ch.  21.  It  comes 
to  this  :  God  creates  a  being  out  of  nothing,  forbids  him  some 
things,  and  enjoins  others  upon  him  ;  and  because  these  com- 
mands are  not  obeyed,  he  tortures  him  to  all  eternity  with 
every  conceivable  anguish  ;  and  for  this  purpose,  binds  soul 
and  body  inseparably  together,  so  that,  instead  of  the  torment 
destroying  this  being  by  splitting  him  up  into  his  elements, 
and  so  setting  him  free,  he  may  live  to  eternal  pain.  This 
poor  creature,  formed  out  of  nothing  !  At  least,  he  has  a 
claim  on  his  original  nothing  :  he  should  be  assured,  as  a 
matter  of  right,  of  this  last  retreat,  which,  in  any  case,  cannot 
be  a  very  evil  one  :  it  is  what  he  has  inherited.  I,  at  any  rate, 
cannot  help  sympathizing  with  him.  If  you  add  to  this 
Augustine's  remaining  do6lrines,  that  all  this  does  not  depend 
on  the  man's  own  sins  and  omissions,  but  was  already  predes- 


82  THE   CHRISTIAN   SYSTEM. 

tined  to  happen,  one  really  is  at  a  loss  what  to  think.  Our 
highly  educated  Rationalists  say,  to  be  sure,  "It's  all  false, 
it's  a  mere  bugbear;  we're  in  a  state  of  constant  progress, 
step  by  step  raising  ourselves  to  ever  greater  perfedlion." 
Ah  !  what  a  pity  we  didn't  begin  sooner  ;  we  should  already 
have  been  there. 

In  the  Christian  system  the  devil  is  a  personage  of  the  great- 
est importance.  God  is  described  as  absolutely  good,  wise 
and  powerful ;  and  unless  he  were  counterbalanced  by  the 
devil,  it  would  be  impossible  to  see  where  the  innumerable 
and  measureless  evils,  which  predominate  in  the  world,  come 
from,  if  there  were  no  devil  to  account  for  them.  And  since 
the  Rationalists  have  done  away  with  the  devil,  the  damage 
infli6^ed  on  the  other  side  has  gone  on  growing,  and  is  becom- 
ing more  and  more  palpable  ;  as  might  have  been  foreseen,  and 
was  foreseen,  by  the  orthodox.  The  fa<5l  is,  you  cannot  take 
away  one  pillar  from  a  building  without  endangering  the  rest 
of  it.  And  this  confirms  the  view,  which  has  been  established 
on  other  grounds,  that  Jehovah  is  a  transformation  of  Ormuzd, 
and  Satan  of  the  Ahriman  who  must  be  taken  in  connection 
with  him.     Ormuzd  himself  is  a  transformation  of  Indra. 

Christianity  has  this  peculiar  disadvantage,  that,  unlike 
other  rehgions,  it  is  not  a  pure  system  of  do6lrine  :  its  chief 
and  essential  feature  is  that  it  is  a  history,  a  series  of  events,  a 
coUedion  of  fads,  a  statement  of  the  actions  and  sufferings  of 
individuals  :  it  is  this  history  which  constitutes  dogma,  and 
belief  in  it  is  salvation.  Other  religions.  Buddhism,  for  in- 
stance, have,  it  is  true,  historical  appendages,  the  life,  namely, 
of  their  founders  :  this,  however,  is  not  part  and  parcel  of  the 
dogma,  but  is  taken  along  with  it.  For  example,  the  Lalitav- 
istara  may  be  compared  with  the  Gospel  so  far  as  it  contains 
the  life  of  Sakya-muni,  the  Buddha  of  the  present  period  of  the 
world's  history  :  but  this  is  something  which  is  quite  separate 
and  different  from  the  dogma,  from  the  system  itself:  and  for 
this  reason  ;  the  lives  of  former  Buddhas  were  quite  other,  and 


THE    CHRISTIAN    SYSTEM.  83 

those  of  the  future  will  be  quite  other,  than  the  life  of  the 
Buddha  of  to-day.  The  dogma  is  by  no  means  one  with  the 
career  of  its  founder  ;  it  does  not  rest  on  individual  persons  or 
events  ;  it  is  something  universal  and  equally  valid  at  all  times. 
The  Lalitavistara  is  not,  then,  a  gospel  in  the  Christian  sense 
of  the  word  ;  it  is  not  the  joyful  message  of  an  a&.  of  redemp- 
tion ;  it  is  the  career  of  him  who  has  shown  how  each  one  may 
redeem  himself.  The  historical  constitution  of  Christianity 
makes  the  Chinese  laugh  at  missionaries  as  story-tellers. 

I  may  mention  here  another  fundamental  error  of  Chris- 
tianity, an  error  which  cannot  be  explained  away,  and  the 
mischievous  consequences  of  which  are  obvious  every  day  :  I 
mean  the  unnatural  distindlion  Christianity  makes  between 
man  and  the  animal  world  to  which  he  really  belongs.  It  sets 
up  man  as  all-important,  and  looks  upon  animals  as  merely 
things.  Brahmanism  and  Buddhism,  on  the  other  hand,  true 
to  the  fa6ls,  recognize  in  a .  positive  way  that  man  is  related 
generally  to  the  whole  of  nature,  and  specially  and  principally 
to  animal  nature  ;  and  in  their  systems  man  is  always  repre- 
sented, by  the  theory  of  metempsychosis  and  otherwise,  as 
closely  connecfted  with  the  animal  world.  The  important  part 
played  by  animals  all  through  Buddhism  and  Brahmanism, 
compared  with  the  total  disregard  of  them  in  Judaism  and 
Christianity,  puts  an  end  to  any  question  as  to  which  system  is 
nearer  perfection,  however  much  we  in  Europe  may  have  be- 
come accustomed  to  the  absurdity  of  the  claim.  Christianity 
contains,  in  fact,  a  great  and  essential  imperfeAion  in  limiting 
its  precepts  to  man,  and  in  refusing  rights  to  the  entire  animal 
world.  As  religion  fails  to  prote6l  animals  against  the  rough, 
unfeeling  and  often  more  than  bestial  multitude,  the  duty  falls 
to  the  police  ;  and  as  the  police  are  unequal  to  the  task,  socie- 
ties for  the  protection  of  animals  are  now  formed  all  over 
Europe  and  America.  In  the  whole  of  uncircumcised  Asia, 
such  a  procedure  would  be  the  most  superfluous  thing  in  the 
world,  because  animals  are  there  sufficiently  protected  by 
religion,  which  even  makes  them  obje6ls  of  charity.  How 
such  charitable  feelings  bear  fruit  may  be  seen,  to  take  an  ex- 


84  THE    CHRISTIAN    SYSTEM. 

ample,  in  the  great  hospital  for  animals  at  Surat,  whither 
Christians,  Mohammedans  and  Jews  can  send  their  sick  beasts, 
which,  if  cured,  are  very  rightly  not  restored  to  their  owners. 
In  the  same  way  when  a  Brahman  or  a  Buddhist  has  a  slice  of 
good  luck,  a  happy  issue  in  any  affair,  instead  of  mumbling  a 
Te  Deum,  he  goes  to  the  market-place  and  buys  birds  and 
opens  their  cages  at  the  city  gate  ;  a  thing  which  may  be  fre- 
quently seen  in  Astrachan,  where  the  adherents  of  every 
religion  meet  together  :  and  so  on  in  a  hundred  similar  ways. 
On  the  other  hand,  look  at  the  revolting  ruffianism  with  which 
our  Christian  public  treats  its  animals  ;  killing  them  for  no 
obje<5l  at  all,  and  laughing  over  it,  or  mutilating  or  torturing 
them  :  even  its  horses,  who  form  its  most  dire6l  means  of  liveli- 
hood, are  strained  to  the  utmost  in  their  old  age,  and  the  last 
strength  worked  out  of  their  poor  bones  until  they  succumb  at 
last  under  the  whip.  One  might  say  with  truth,  Mankind  are 
the  devils  of  the  earth,  and  the  animals  the  souls  they  torment. 
But  what  can  you  expe6l  from  the  masses,  when  there  are  men 
of  education,  zoologists  even,  who,  instead  of  admitting  what 
is  so  familiar  to  them,  the  essential  identity  of  man  and  animal, 
are  bigoted  and  stupid  enough  to  offer  a  zealous  opposition  to 
their  honest  and  rational  colleagues,  when  they  class  man  under 
the  proper  head  as  an  animal,  or  demonstrate  the  resemblance 
between  him  and  the  chimpanzee  or  ourang-outang.  It  is  a 
revolting  thing  that  a  writer  who  is  so  pious  and  Christian  in 
his  sentiments  as  Jung  Stilling  should  use  a  simile  like  this,  in 
his  Scenen  aus  dem  Geisterreich.  (Bk.  II.  sc.  i.,  p.  15.) 
' '  Suddenly  the  skeleton  shriveled  up  into  an  indescribably 
hideous  and  dwarf-like  form,  just  as  when  you  bring  a  large 
spider  into  the  focus  of  a  burning  glass,  and  watch  the  purulent 
blood  hiss  and  bubble  in  the  heat."  This  man  of  God  then 
was  guilty  of  such  infamy  !  or  looked  on  quietly  when  another 
was  committing  it !  in  either  case  it  comes  to  the  same  thing 
here.  So  little  harm  did  he  think  of  it  that  he  tells  us  of  it  in 
passing,  and  without  a  trace  of  emotion.  Such  are  the  effects 
of  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis,  and,  in  fa<5l,  of  the  whole  of  the 


THE    CHRISTIAN    SYSTEM.  85 

Jewish  conception  of  nature.  The  standard  recognized  by  the 
Hindus  and  Buddhists  is  the  Mahavakya  (the  great  word), — 
"  tat-twam-asi,"  (this  is  thyself),  which  may  always  be  spoken 
of  every  animal,  to  keep  us  in  mind  of  the  identity  of  his 
inmost  being  with  ours.  Perfe6lion  of  morality,  indeed  ! 
Nonsense. 

The  fundamental  characteristics  of  the  Jewish  religion  are 
realism  and  optimism,  views  of  the  world  which  are  closely 
allied  ;  they  form,  in  fa<5l,  the  conditions  of  theism.  For 
theism  looks  upon  the  material  world  as  absolutely  real,  and 
regards  life  as  a  pleasant  gift  bestowed  upon  us.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  fundamental  chara6leristics  of  the  Brahman  and 
Buddhist  religions  are  idealism  and  pessimism,  which  look  up- 
on the  existence  of  the  world  as  in  the  nature  of  a  dream,  and 
life  as  the  result  of  our  sins.  In  the  do6lrines  of  the  Zendavesta, 
from  which,  as  is  well  known,  Judaism  sprang,  the  pessimistic 
element  is  represented  by  Ahriman.  In  Judaism,  Ahriman  has 
as  Satan  only  a  subordinate  position  ;  but,  like  Ahriman,  he  is 
the  lord  of  snakes,  scorpions,  and  vermin.  But  the  Jewish 
system  forthwith  employs  Satan  to  corredl  its  fundamental 
error  of  optimism,  and  in  the  Fall  introduces  the  element  of 
pessimism,  a  do6lrine  demanded  by  the  most  obvious  facts  of  the 
world.  There  is  no  truer  idea  in  Judaism  than  this,  although 
it  transfers  to  the  course  of  existence  what  must  be  represented 
as  its  foundation  and  antecedent. 

The  New  Testament,  on  the  other  hand,  must  be  in  some 
way  traceable  to  an  Indian  source  :  its  ethical  system,  its  ascetic 
view  of  morality,  its  pessimism,  and  its  Avatar,  are  all  thor- 
oughly Indian.  It  is  its  morality  which  places  it  in  a  position 
of  such  emphatic  and  essential  antagonism  to  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, so  that  the  story  of  the  Fall  is  the  only  possible  point  of 
conne6tion  between  the  two.  For  when  the  Indian  do6trine 
was  imported  into  the  land  of  promise,  two  very  different  things 
had  to  be  combined  :  on  the  one  hand  the  consciousness  of  the 
corruption  and  misery  of  the  world,  its  need  of  deliverance  and 


86  THE    CHRISTIAN    SYSTEM. 

salvation  through  an  Avatar,  together  with  a  morality  based  on 
sell-denial  and  repentance  ;  on  the  other  hand  the  Jewish  doc- 
trine of  Monotheism,  with  its  corollary  that  "all  things  are 
very  good,"  {nui'Ta  KdXa  ?.iav.)  And  the  task  succeeded  as  far 
as  it  could,  as  far,  that  is,  as  it  was  possible  to  combine  two 
such  heterogeneous  and  antagonistic  creeds. 

As  ivy  clings  for  the  support  and  stay  it  wants  to  a  rough- 
hewn  post,  everywhere  conforming  to  its  irregularities  and 
showing  their  outline,  but  at  the  same  time  covering  them  with 
life  and  grace,  and  changing  the  former  aspe6l  into  one  that  is 
pleasing  to  the  eye  ;  so  the  Christian  faith,  sprung  from  the 
wisdom  of  India,  overspreads  the  old  trunk  of  rude  Judaism,  a 
tree  of  alien  growth  ;  the  original  form  must  in  part  remain, 
but  it  suffers  a  complete  change  and  becomes  full  of  life  and 
truth,  so  that  it  appears  to  be  the  same  tree,  but  is  really 
another. 

Judaism  had  represented  the  Creator  as  separated  from  the 
world,  which  he  produced  out  of  nothing.  Christianity  identi- 
fies this  Creator  with  the  Saviour,  and  through  him,  with 
humanity  :  he  stands  as  their  representative  ;  they  are  redeem- 
ed in  him,  just  as  they  fell  in  Adam,  and  have  lain  ever  since 
in  the  bonds  of  iniquity,  corruption,  suffering  and  death. 
Such  is  the  view  taken  by  Christianity  in  common  with 
Buddhism  ;  the  world  can  no  longer  be  looked  at  in  the  light 
of  Jewish  optimism,  which  found  "all  things  very  good:" 
nay,  in  the  Christian  scheme,  the  devil  is  named  as  its  Prince 
or  Ruler,  (6  ipxuv  rdv  koouov  tovtov.  John  12,  33).  The  world  is 
no  longer  an  end.  but  a  means  :  and  the  realm  of  everlasting 
joy  lies  beyond  it  and  the  grave.  Resignation  in  this  world 
and  diredtion  of  all  our  hopes  to  a  better,  form  the  spirit  of 
Christianity.  The  way  to  this  end  is  opened  by  the  Atone- 
ment, that  is  the  Redemption  from  this  world  and  its  ways. 
And  in  the  moral  system,  instead  of  the  law  of  vengeance, 
there  is  the  command  to  love  your  enemy  ;  instead  of  the 
promise  of  mnumerable  posterity,  the  assurance  of  eternal  life  ; 
instead  of  visiting  the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the  children  to 


THE    CHRISTIAN    SYSTEM.  87 

the  third  and  fourth  generations,  the  Holy  Spirit  governs  and 
overshadows  all. 

We  see,  then,  that  the  do6lrines  of  the  Old  Testament  are 
rectified  and  their  meaning  changed  by  those  of  the  New,  so 
that,  in  the  most  important  and  essential  matters,  an  agreement 
is  brought  about  between  them  and  the  old  religions  of  India. 
Everything  which  is  true  in  Christianity  may  also  be  found  in 
Brahmanism  and  Buddhism.  But  in  Hinduism  and  Buddhism 
you  will  look  in  vain  for  any  parallel  to  the  Jewish  doftrines  of 
' '  a  nothing  quickened  into  life, "  or  of  "  a  world  made  in  time, ' ' 
which  cannot  be  humble  enough  in  its  thanks  and  praises  to 
Jehovah  for  an  ephemeral  existence  full  of  misery,  anguish 
and  need. 

Whoever  seriously  thinks  that  superhuman  beings  have  ever 
given  our  race  information  as  to  the  aim  of  its  existence  and 
that  of  the  world,  is  still  in  his  childhood.  There  is  no  other 
revelation  than  the  thoughts  of  the  wise,  even  though  these 
thoughts,  liable  to  error  as  is  the  lot  of  everything  human,  are 
often  clothed  in  strange  allegories  and  myths  under  the  name 
of  religion.  So  far,  then,  it  is  a  matter  of  indifference  whether 
a  man  lives  and  dies  in  reliance  on  his  own  or  another's 
thoughts  ;  for  it  is  never  more  than  human  thought,  human 
opinion,  which  he  trusts  Still,  instead  of  trusting  what  their 
own  minds  tell  them,  men  have  as  a  rule  a  weakness  for  trust- 
ing others  who  pretend  to  supernatural  sources  of  knowledge. 
And  in  view  of  the  enormous  intelle6lual  inequality  between 
man  and  man,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  the  thoughts  of  one  mind 
might  appear  as  in  some  sense  a  revelation  to  another. 


THE  ART  OF  LITERATURE. 


TRANSLATOR'S   PREFACE. 


THE  contents  of  this,  as  of  the  other  volumes  in  the  series, 
have  been  drawn  from  Schopenhauer's  Parerga,  and 
amongst  the  various  subje6ls  dealt  with  in  that  famous  collec- 
tion of  essays,  Literature  holds  an  important  place.  Nor  can 
Schopenhauer's  opinions  fail  to  be  of  special  value  when  he 
treats  of  literary  form  and  method.  For,  quite  apart  from  his 
philosophical  pretensions,  he  claims  recognition  as  a  great 
writer  ;  he  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  best  of  the  few  really  excellent 
prose- writers  of  whom  Germany  can  boast.  While  he  is  thus 
particularly  qualified  to  speak  of  Literature  as  an  Art,  he  has 
also  something  to  say  upon  those  influences  which,  outside  of 
his  own  merits,  contribute  so  much  to  an  author's  success,  and 
are  so  often  undervalued  when  he  obtains  immediate  populari- 
ty. Schopenhauer's  own  sore  experiences  in  the  matter  of 
reputation  lend  an  interest  to  his  remarks  upon  that  subjedl, 
although  it  is  too  much  to  ask  of  human  nature  that  he  should 
approach  it  in  any  dispassionate  spirit. 

In  the  following  pages  we  have  observations  upon  style  by 
one  who  was  a  stylist  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  not  afre<ft- 
ed,  nor  yet  a  phrase-monger  ;  on  thinking  for  oneself  by  a 
philosopher  who  never  did  anything  else  ;  on  criticism  by  a 
writer  who  suffered  much  from  the  inability  of  others  to  under- 
stand him  ;  on  reputation  by  a  candidate  who,  during  the 
greater  part  of  his  life,  deserved  without  obtaining  it ;  and  on 
genius  by  one  who  was  incontestably  of  the  privileged  order 

(iii) 


iv  translator's  preface. 

himself.  And  whatever  may  be  thought  of  some  of  his  opin- 
ions on  matters  of  detail — on  anonymity,  for  instance,  or  on 
the  question  whether  good  work  is  never  done  for  money — 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  his  general  view  of  literature,  and 
the  conditions  under  which  it  flourishes,  is  perfectly  sound. 

It  might  be  thought,  perhaps,  that  remarks  which  were 
meant  to  apply  to  the  German  language  would  have  but  little 
bearing  upon  one  so  different  from  it  as  English.  This  would 
be  a  just  obje<5lion  if  Schopenhauer  treated  literature  in  a  petty 
spirit,  and  confined  himself  to  pedantic  inquiries  into  matters 
of  grammar  and  etymology,  or  mere  niceties  of  phrase.  But 
this  is  not  so.  He  deals  with  his  subject  broadly,  and  takes 
large  and  general  views  ;  nor  can  anyone  who  knows  anything 
of  the  philosopher  suppose  this  to  mean  that  he  is  vague  and 
feeble.  It  is  true  that  now  and  again  in  the  course  of  these 
essays  he  makes  remarks  which  are  obviously  meant  to  apply 
to  the  failings  of  certain  writers  of  his  own  age  and  country  ; 
but  in  such  a  case  I  have  generally  given  his  sentences  a  turn, 
which,  while  keeping  them  faithful  to  the  spirit  of  the  original, 
secures  for  them  a  less  restri6led  range,  and  makes  Schopen- 
hauer a  critic  of  similar  faults  in  whatever  age  or  country  they 
may  appear.  This  has  been  done  in  spite  of  a  sharp  word  on 
page  seventeen  of  this  volume,  addressed  to  translators  who 
dare  to  revise  their  author  ;  but  the  change  is  one  with  which, 
not  even  Schopenhauer  could  quarrel.  ■    ' 

It  is  thus  a  significant  fa(5l — a  testimony  to  the  depth  of  his 
insight  and,  in  the  main,  the  justice  of  his  opinions — that  view* 
of  literature  which  appealed  to  his  own  immediate  contempora- 
ries, should  be  found  to  hold  good  elsewhere  and  at  a  distance 
of  fifty  years.  It  means  that  what  he  had  to  say  was  worth 
saying  ;  and  since  it  is  adapted  thus  equally  to  diverse  times 
and  audiences,  it  is  probably  of  permanent  interest. 

The  intelligent  reader  will  observe  that  much  of  the  charm- 
of  Schopenhauer's  writing  comes  from  its  .strongly  personal 
chara6ter,  and  that  here  he  has  to  do,  not  with  a  mere  maker  of 
books,  but  with  a  man  who  thinks  for  himself  and  has  no  false: 


translator's  preface.  V 

scruples  in  putting  his  meaning  plainly  upon  the  page,  or  in 
unmasking  sham  wherever  he  finds  it.  This  is  nowhere  so 
true  as  when  he  deals  with  literature  ;  and  just  as  in  his  treat- 
ment of  life,  he  is  no  flatterer  to  men  in  general,  so  here  he  is 
free  and  outspoken  on  the  peculiar  failings  of  authors.  At  the 
same  time  he  gives  them  good  advice.  He  is  particularly 
happy  in  recommending  restraint  in  regard  to  reading  the 
works  of  others,  and  the  cultivation  of  independent  thought  ; 
and  herein  he  recalls  a  saying  attributed  to  Hobbes,  who  was 
not  less  distinguished  as  a  writer  than  as  a  philosopher,  to  the 
effedl  that  ''  if  he  had  read  as  much  as  other  men,  he  should 
have  been  as  ignorant  as  they.] ' 

Schopenhauer  also  utters  a  warning,  which  we  shall  do  well 
to  take  to  heart  in  these  days,  against  mingling  the  pursuit  of 
literature  with  vulgar  aims.  If  we  follow  him  here,  we  shall 
carefully  distinguish  between  literature  as  an  obje6l  of  life  and 
literature  as  a  means  of  living,  between  the  real  love  of  truth 
and  beauty,  and  that  detestable  false  love  which  looks  to  the 
price  it  will  fetch  in  the  market.  I  am  not  referring  to  those 
who,  while  they  follow  a  useful  and  honorable  calling  in  bring- 
ing literature  before  the  public,  are  content  to  be  known  as 
men  of  business.  If,  by  the  help  of  some  second  witch  of 
Endor,  we  could  raise  the  ghost  of  Schopenhauer,  it  would  be 
interesting  to  hear  his  opinion  of  a  certain  kind  of  literary 
enterprise  which  has  come  into  vogue  since  his  day,  and  now 
receives  an  amount  of  attention  very  much  beyond  its  due. 
We  may  hazard  a  guess  at  the  direction  his  opinion  would 
take.  He  would  doubtless  show  us  how  this  enterprise,  which 
is  carried  on  by  self-styled  literary  m^n,  ends  by  making  litera- 
ture into  a  form  of  merchandise,  and  treating  it  as  though  it 
were  so  much  goods  to  be  bought  and  sold  at  a  profit,  and 
most  likely  to  produce  quick  returns  if  the  maker's  name  is 
well  known.  Nor  would  it  be  the  ghost  of  the  real  Schopen- 
hauer unless  we  heard  a  vigorous  denunciation  of  men  who 
claim  a  conneclion  with  literature  by  a  servile  flattery  of  suc- 
cessful living  authors — the  dead  connot  be  made  to  pay — in 


vi  translator's  preface. 


the  hope  of  appearing  to  advantage  in  their  refle<5led  h'ght  and 
turning  that  advantage  into  money. 

In  order  to  present  the  contents  of  this  book  in  a  convenient 
form,  I  have  not  scrupled  to  make  an  arrangement  with  the 
chapters  somewhat  different  from  that  which  exists  in  the  orig- 
inal ;  so  that  two  or  more  subje(5ls  which  are  there  dealt  with 
successively  in  one  and  the  same  chapter,  here  stand  by  them- 
selves. In  consequence  of  this,  some  of  the  titles  of  the  sections 
are  not  to  be  found  in  the  original.  I  may  state,  however, 
that  the  essays  on  Authorship  and  Style  and  the  latter  part 
of  that  on  Criticism  are  taken  dire6l  from  the  chapter  head- 
ed Ueber  Schrifistellerei  und  Stil;  and  that  the  remainder  of 
the  essay  on  Criticism,  with  that  of  Reputatioti,  is  supplied  by 
the  remarks  Ueber  Urtheil,  Kritik,  Beifall  und  Ruhm.  The 
essays  on  The  Study  of  Latin,  on  Men  of  Learning,  and  on 
Some  Forms  of  Literature,  are  taken  chiefly  from  the  four  sec- 
tions Ueber  Gelehrsamkeit  und  Gelehrte,  Ueber  Sprache  und 
Worte,  Ueber  Lesen  und  Biicher:  Anhang,  and  Zur  Meta- 
physik  des  Schonen.  The  essay  on  Thinking  for  Oneself  is  a 
rendering  of  certain  remarks  under  the  heading  Selbstdenken. 
Genius  was  a  favorite  subje6l  of  speculation  with  Schopen- 
hauer, and  he  often  touches  upon  it  in  the  course  of  his  works ; 
always,  however,  to  put  forth  the  same  theory  in  regard  to  it 
as  may  be  found  in  the  concluding  se6lion  of  this  volume. 
Though  the  essay  has  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  literary 
method,  the  subje6l  of  which  it  treats  is  the  most  needful  ele- 
ment of  success  in  literature  ;  and  I  have  introduced  it  on  that 
ground.  It  forms  part  of  a  chapter  in  the  Parerga  entitled 
Den  Intellekt  iiberhaupt  und  in  jeder  Beziehung  betreffende 
Gedanken  :  Anhatig  verwandter  Stellen. 

It  has  also  been  part  of  my  duty  to  invent  a  title  for  this 
volume  ;  and  I  am  well  aware  that  obje^lion  may  be  made  to 
the  one  I  have  chosen,  on  the  ground  that  in  common  language 
it  is  unusual  to  speak  of  literature  as  an  .art,  and  that  to  do  so 
is  unduly  to  narrow  its  meaning  and  to  leave  out  of  sight  its 
main  function  as  the  record  of  thought.    But  there  is  no  reason 


translator's  preface.  vii 

why  the  word  Literature  should  not  be  employed  in  that 
double  sense  which  is  allowed  to  attach  to  Painting,  Music, 
Sculpture,  as  signifying  either  the  obje6live  outcome  of  a 
certain  mental  adlivity,  seeking  to  express  itself  in  outward 
form  ;  or  else  the  particular  kind  of  mental  aftivity  in  question, 
and  the  methods  it  follows.  And  we  do,  in  fa6l,  use  it  in  this 
latter  sense,  when  we  say  of  a  writer  that  he  pursues  literature 
as  a  calling.  If,  then,  literature  can  be  taken  to  mean  a  pro- 
cess as  well  as  a  result  of  mental  activity,  there  can  be  no  error 
in  speaking  of  it  as  Art.  I  use  that  term  in  its  broad  sense,  as 
meaning  skill  in  the  display  of  thought ;  or,  more  fully,  a  right 
use  of  the  rules  applying  to  the  practical  exhibition  of  thought, 
with  whatever  material  it  may  deal.  In  connection  with 
literature,  this  is  a  sense  and  an  application  of  the  term  which 
have  been  sufficiently  established  by  the  example  of  the  great 
writers  of  antiquity. 

It  may  be  asked,  of  course,  whether  the  true  thinker,  who 
will  always  form  the  soul  of  the  true  author,  will  not  be  so 
much  occupied  with  what  he  has  to  say,  that  it  will  appear  to 
him  a  trivial  thing  to  spend  great  effort  on  embellishing  the 
form  in  which  he  delivers  it.  Literature,  to  be  worthy  of  the 
name,  must,  it  is  true,  deal  with  noble  matter — the  riddle  of 
our  existence,  the  great  facls  of  life,  the  changing  passions  of 
the  human  heart,  the  discernment  of  some  deep  moral  truth. 
It  is  easy  to  lay  too  much  stress  upon  the  mere  garment  of 
thought ;  to  be  too  precise ;  to  give  to  the  arrangement  of 
words  an  attention  that  should  rather  be  paid  to  the  promotion 
of  fresh  ideas.  A  writer  who  makes  this  mistake  is  like  a  fop 
who  spends  his  little  mind  in  adorning  his  person.  In  short, 
it  may  be  charged  against  the  view  of  literature  which  is  taken 
in  calling  it  an  Art,  that,  instead  of  making  truth  and  insight 
the  author's  aim,  it  favors  sciolism  and  a  fantastic  and  affeded 
style.  There  is,  no  doubt,  some  justice  in  the  objedion  ;  nor 
have  we  in  our  own  day,  and  especially  amongst  younger  men, 
any  lack  of  writers  who  endeavor  to  win  confidence,  not  by 
adding  to  the  stock  of  ideas  in  the  world,  but  by  despising 


Vlll  TRANSLATOR  S    PREF\CE. 

the  use  of  plain  language.  Their  faults  are  not  new  in  the 
history  of  literature  ;  and  it  is  a  pleasing  sign  of  Schopenhauer's 
insight  that  a  merciless  exposure  of  them,  as  they  existed  half 
a  century  ago,  is  still  quite  applicable  to  their  modern  form. 

And  since  these  writers,  who  may,  in  the  slang  of  the  hour, 
be  called  "  impressionists  "  in  literature,  follow  their  own  bad 
taste  in  the  manufadlure  of  dainty  phrases,  devoid  of  all  nerve, 
and  generally  with  some  quite  commonplace  meaning,  it  is  all 
the  more  necessary  to  discriminate  carefully  between  artifice 
and  art. 

But  although  they  may  learn  something  from  Schopen- 
hauer's advice,  it  is  not  chiefly  to  them  that  it  is  offered.  It 
is  to  that  great  mass  of  writers,  whose  business  is  to  fill  the 
columns  of  the  newspaper  and  the  pages  of  the  review,  and  to 
produce  the  ton  of  novels  that  appear  every  year.  Now  that 
almost  everyone  who  can  hold  a  pen  aspires  to  be  called  an 
author,  it  is  well  to  emphasize  the  fa<5l  that  literature  is  an  art 
in  some  respe<5ls  more  important  than  any  other.  The  prob- 
lem of  this  art  is  the  discovery  of  those  qualities  of  style  and 
treatment  which  entitle  any  work  to  be  called  good  litera- 
ture. 

It  will  be  safe  to  warn  the  reader  at  the  very  outset  that,  if 
he  wishes  to  avoid  being  led  astray,  he  should  in  his  search  for 
these  qualities  turn  to  books  that  have  stood  the  test  of 
time. 

For  such  an  amount  of  hasty  writing  is  done  in  these  days 
that  it  is  really  difficult  for  anyone  who  reads  much  of  it  to  avoid 
contra6ling  its  faults,  and  thus  gradually  coming  to  terms  of 
dangerous  familiarity  with  bad  methods.  This  advice  will  be 
especially  needful  if  things  that  have  little  or  no  claim  to  be 
called  literature  at  all — the  newspaper,  the  monthly  magazine, 
and  the  last  new  tale  of  intrigue  or  adventure — fill  a  large 
measure,  if  not  the  whole,  of  the  time  given  to  reading.  Nor 
are  those  who  are  sincerely  anxious  to  have  the  best  thought 
in  the  best  language  quite  free  from  danger  if  they  give  too 
much  attention  to  contemporary  authors,  even  though  these 


translator's  preface.  be 

seem  to  think  and  write  excellently.  For  one  generation  alone 
is  incompetent  to  decide  upon  the  merits  of  any  author  what- 
ever ;  and  as  literature,  like  all  art,  is  a  thing  of  human  inven- 
tion, so  it  can  be  pronounced  good  only  if  it  obtains  lasting 
admiration,  by  establishing  a  permanent  appeal  to  mankind's 
deepest  feeling  for  truth  and  beauty. 

It  is  in  this  sense  that  Schopenhauer  is  perfe6tly  right  in 
holding  that  the  negle6l  of  the  ancient  classics,  which  are  the 
best  of  all  models  in  the  art  of  writing,  will  infallibly  lead  to 
a  degeneration  of  literature. 

And  the  method  of  discovering  the  best  qualities  of  style, 

and  of  forming  a   theory  of  writing,    is  not  to  follow  some 

trick  or  mannerism  that  happens  to  please  for  the  moment, 

but  to  study  the  way  in  which  great  authors  have  done  their 

^  best  work. 

It  will  be  said  that  Schopenhauer  tells  us  nothing  we  did  not 
know  before.  Perhaps  so  ;  as  he  himself  says,  the  best  things 
are  seldom  new.  But  he  puts  the  old  truths  in  a  fresh  and 
forcible  way  ;  and  no  one  who  knows  anything  of  good  litera- 
ture will  deny  that  these  truths  are  just  now  of  very  fit  applica- 
tion. 

It  was  probably  to  meet  a  real  want  that,  a  year  or  two 
ago,  an  ingenious  person  succeeded  in  drawing  a  great  number 
of  English  and  American  writers  into  a  confession  of  their 
literary  creed  and  the  art  they  adopted  in  authorship  ;  and  the 
interesting  volume  in  which  he  gave  these  confessions  to  the 
world  contained  some  very  good  advice,  although  most  of  it 
had  been  said  before  in  different  forms.  More  recently  a  new 
departure,  of  very  doubtful  use,  has  taken  place  ;  and  two 
books  have  been  issued,  which  aim,  the  one  at  being  an 
author's  manual,  the  other  at  giving  hints  on  essays  and  how 
to  write  them. 

A   glance    at  these  books  will  probably  show  that  their 
authors  have  still  something  to  learn. 

Both  of  these  ventures  seem,  unhappily,  to  be  popular  ; 
and,  although  they  may  claim  a  position  next-door  to  that  of 


TRANSLATOR  S    PREFACE. 


the  present  volume  I  beg  to  say  that  it  has  no  connexion  with 
them  whatever.  Schopenhauer  does  not  attempt  to  teach  the 
art  of  making  bricks  without  straw. 

I  wish  to  take  this  opportunity  of  tendering  my  thanks  to  a 
large  number  of  reviewers  for  the  very  gratifying  reception 
given  to  the  earlier  volumes  of  this  series.  And  I  have  great 
pleasure  in  expressing  my  obligations  to  my  friend  Mr.  W.  G. 
Collingwood,  who  has  looked  over  most  of  my  proofs  and 
often  given  me  excellent  advice  in  my  effort  to  turn  Schopen- 
hauer into  readable  English. 

T.  B.  S. 


CONTENTS. 


—  :o  : — 


Page 

Preface, iii 

On  Authorship, 13 

On  Style,          -        -        .        -        -        -        -        .  21^ 

On  the  Study  of  Latin,         -        -        -        -  38 

On  Men  of  Learning, 42 

On  Thinking  for  Oneself,    -        -        -        -        -  48 

On  Some  Forms  of  Literature,    -        -        -        -  59 

On  Criticism, 66 

On  Reputation, 78 

On  Genius,        -        - 94 


ON  AUTHORSHIP. 

THERE  are,  first  of  all,  two  kinds  of  authors  :  those  who 
write  for  the  subjeft's  sake,  and  those  who  write  for  writ- 
ing's sake.  While  the  one  have  had  thoughts  or  experiences 
which  seem  to  them  worth  communicating,  the  others  want 
money  ;  and  so  they  write,  for  money.  Their  thinking  is  part 
of  the  business  of  writing.  They  may  be  recognized  by  the 
way  in  which  they  spin  out  their  thoughts  to  the  greatest  possi- 
ble length  ;  then,  too,  by  the  very  nature  of  their  thoughts, 
which  are  only  half-true,  perverse,  forced,  vacillating ;  again, 
by  the  aversion  they  generally  show  to  saying  anything  straight 
out,  so  that  they  may  seem  other  than  they  are.  Hence  their 
writing  is  deficient  in  clearness  and  definiteness,  and  it  is  not 
long  before  they  betray  that  their  only  objed  in  writing  at  all 
is  to  cover  paper.  This  sometimes  happens  with  the  best 
authors  ;  now  and  then,  for  example,  with  Lessing  in  his 
Dramaturgie,  and  even  in  many  of  Jean  Paul's  romances.  As 
soon  as  the  reader  perceives  this,  let  him  throw  the  book  away  ; 
for  time  is  precious.  The  truth  is  that  when  an  author  begins 
to  write  for  the  sake  of  covering  paper,  he  is  cheating  the 
reader  ;  because  he  writes  under  the  pretext  that  he  has  some- 
thing to  say. 

Writing  for  money  and  reservation  of  copyright  are,  at 
bottom,  the  ruin  of  literature.  No  one  writes  anything  that  is 
worth  writing,  unless  he  writes  entirely  for  the  sake  of  his  sub- 
je<Sl.  What  an  inestimable  boon  it  would  be,  if  in  every  branch 
of  literature  there  were  only  a  few  books,  but  those  excellent ! 
This  can  never  happen,  as  long  as  money  is  to  be  made  by 
writing.     It  seems  as  though  the  money  lay  under  a  curse  ;  for 

every  author  degenerates  as  soon  as  he  begins  to  put  pen  to 

(13) 


14  THE  ART  OF  LITERATURE. 

paper  in  any  way  for  the  sake  of  gain.  The  best  works  of  the 
greatest  men  all  come  from  the  time  when  they  had  to  write 
for  nothing  or  for  very  little.  And  here,  too,  that  Spanish 
proverb  holds  goods,  which  declares  that  honor  and  money 
are  not  to  be  found  in  the  same  purse — honra  y  provecho  no 
caben  en  un  suco.  The  reason  why  Literature  is  in  such  a  bad 
plight  nowadays  is  simply  and  solely  that  people  write  books 
to  make  money.  A  man  who  is  in  want  sits  down  and  writes 
a  book,  and  the  public  is  stupid  enough  to  buy  it.  The  second- 
ary effedl  of  this  is  the  ruin  of  language. 

A  great  many  bad  writers  make  their  whole  living  by  that 
foolish  mania  of  the  public  for  reading  nothing  but  what  has 
just  been  printed, — journalists,  I  mean.  Truly,  a  most  appro- 
priate name.     In  plain  language  it  \s  journeymen^  day -laborers  ! 

Again,  it  may  be  said  that  there  are  three  kinds  of  authors. 
First  come  those  who  write  without  thinking.  They  write 
from  a  full  memory,  from  reminiscences ;  it  may  be,  even 
straight  out  of  other  people's  books.  This  class  is  the  most 
numerous.  Then  come  those  who  do  their  thinking  whilst 
they  are  writing.  They  think  in  order  to  write  :  and  there  is 
no  lack  of  them.  Last  of  all  come  those  authors  who  think 
before  they  begin  to  write.     They  are  rare. 

Authors  of  the  second  class,  who  put  off  their  thinking  until 
they  come  to  write,  are  like  a  sportsman  who  goes  forth  at 
random  and  is  not  likely  to  bring  very  much  home.  On  the 
other  hand,  when  an  author  of  the  third  or  rare  class  writes,  it 
is  like  a  battue.  Here  the  game  has  been  previously  captured 
and  shut  up  within  a  very  small  space  ;  from  which  it  is  after- 
wards let  out,  so  many  at  a  time,  into  another  space,  also  con- 
fined. The  game  cannot  possibly  escape  the  sportsman  ;  he 
has  nothing  to  do  but  aim  and  fire — in  other  words,  write  down 
his  thoughts.  This  is  a  kind  of  sport  from  which  a  man  has 
something  to  show. 

But  even  though  the  number  of  those  who  really  think  seri- 
ously before  they  begin  to  write  is  small,  extremely  few  of  them 
think  about  the  subje£l  itself :  the  remainder  think  only  about 


ON  AUTHORSHIP.  15 

the  books  that  have  been  written  on  the  subje<5l,  and  what  has 
been  said  by  others.  In  order  to  think  at  all,  such  writers 
need  the  more  dire6l  and  powerful  stimulus  of  having  other 
people's  thoughts  before  them.  These  become  their  immedi- 
ate theme  ;  and  the  result  is  that  they  are  always  under  their  in- 
fluence, and  so  never,  in  any  real  sense  of  the  word,  are  original. 
But  the  former  are  roused  to  thought  by  the  subje6l  itself,  to 
which  their  thinking  is  thus  immediately  dire6led.  This  is  the 
only  class  that  produces  writers  of  abiding  fame. 

It  must,  of  course,  be  understood  that  I  am  speaking  here 
oi  writers  who  treat  of  great  subjects  ;  not  of  writers  on  the 
art  of  making  brandy. 

Unless  an  author  takes  the  material  on  which  he  writes  out 
of  his  own  head,  that  is  to  say,  from  his  own  observation,  he 
is  not  worth  reading.  Book-manufad:urers,  compilers,  the 
common  run  of  history-writers,  and  many  others  of  the  same 
class,  take  their  material  immediately  out  of  books  ;  and  the 
material  goes  straight  to  their  finger-tips  without  even  paying 
freight  or  undergoing  examination  as  it  passes  through  their 
heads,  to  say  nothing  of  elaboration  or  revision.  How  very 
learned  many  a  man  would  be  if  he  knew  everything  that  was 
in  his  own  books  !  The  consequence  of  this  is  that  these 
writers  talk  in  such  a  loose  and  vague  manner,  that  the  reader 
puzzles  his  brains  in  vain  to  understand  what  it  is  of  which 
they  are  really  thinking.  They  are  thinking  of  nothing.  It 
may  now  and  then  be  the  case  that  the  book  from  which  they 
copy  has  been  composed  exa6lly  in  the  same  way  :  so  that 
writing  of  this  sort  is  like  a  plaster  cast  of  a  cast ;  and  in  the 
end,  the  bare  outline  of  the  face,  and  that,  too,  hardly  recog- 
nizable, is  all  that  is  left  of  your  Antinous..  Let  compilations 
be  read  as  seldom  as  possible.  It  is  difficult  to  avoid  them 
altogether  ;  since  compilations  also  include  those  text-books 
which  contain  in  a  small  space  the  accumulated  knowledge  of 
centuries. 

There  is  no  greater  mistake  than  to  suppose  that  the  last 
work  is  always  the  more  correal ;  that  what  is  written  later  on 
is  in  every  case  an  improvement  on  what  was  written  before  • 


l6  THE   ART     OF     LITERATURE. 

and  that  change  always  means  progress.  Real  thinkers,  men 
of  right  judgment,  people  who  are  in  earnest  with  their  subject, 
— these  are  all  exceptions  only.  Vermin  is  the  rule  everywhere 
in  the  world  :  it  is  always  on  the  alert,  taking  the  mature  opin- 
ions of  the  thinkers,  and  industriously  seeking  to  improve  up- 
on them  (save  the  mark  !)  in  its  own  peculiar  way. 

If  the  reader  wishes  to  study  any  subje6l,  let  him  beware  of 
rushing  to  the  newest  books  upon  it,  and  confining  his  atten- 
tion to  them  alone,  under  the  notion  that  science  is  always 
advancing,  and  that  the  old  books  have  been  drawn  upon  in 
the  writing  of  the  new.  They  have  been  drawn  upon,  it  is 
true  ;  but  how  ?  The  writer  of  the  new  book  often  does  not 
understand  the  old  books  thoroughly,  and  yet  he  is  unwilling 
to  take  their  exa6l  words  ;  so  he  bungles  them,  and  says  in  his 
own  bad  way  that  which  has  been  said  very  much  better  and 
more  clearly  by  the  old  writers,  who  wrote  from  their  own  live- 
ly knowledge  of  the  subje<5l.  The  new  writer  frequently  omits 
the  best  things  they  say,  their  most  striking  illustrations,  their 
happiest  remarks  ;  because  he  does  not  see  their  value  or  feel 
how  pregnant  they  are.  The  only  thing  that  appeals  to  him 
is  what  is  shallow  and  insipid. 

It  often  happens  that  an  old  and  excellent  book  is  ousted  by 
new  and  bad  ones,  which,  written  for  money,  appear  with  an 
air  of  great  pretension  and  much  puffing  on  the  part  ol  friends. 
In  science  a  man  tries  to  make  his  mark  by  bringing  out  some- 
thing fresh.  This  often  means  nothing  more  than  that  he 
attacks  some  received  theory  which  is  quite  corre6l,  in  order 
to  make  room  for  his  own  false  notions.  Sometimes  the  effort 
is  successful  for  a  time  ;  and  then  a  return  is  made  to  the  old 
and  true  theory.  These  innovators  are  serious  about  nothing 
but  their  own  precious  self :  it  is  this  that  they  want  to  put 
forward,  and  the  quick  way  of  doing  so,  as  they  think,  is  to 
start  a  paradox.  Their  sterile  heads  take  naturally  to  the  path 
of  negation ;  so  they  begin  to  deny  truths  that  have  long  been 
admitted — the  vital  power,  for  example,  the  sympathetic  nerv- 
ous system,  generatio  equivoca,  Bichat's  distindlion  between 
the  working  of  the  passions  and  the  working  of  intelligence ; 


ON  AUTHORSHIP.  l^ 

or  else  they  want  us  to  return  to  crass  atomism,  and  the  like. 
Hence  it  frequently  happens  that  the  course  of  science  is  retro- 
gressive. 

To  this  class  of  writers  belong  those  translators  who  not  only 
translate  their  author  but  also  correal  and  revise  him  ;  a  pro- 
ceeding which  always  seems  to  me  impertinent.  To  such 
writers  I  say  :  Write  books  yourself  which  are  worth  translat- 
ing, and  leave  other  people's  works  as  they  are  ! 

The  reader  should  study,  if  he  can,  the  real  authors,  the 
men  who  have  founded  and  discovered  things  ;  or,  at  any  rate, 
those  who  are  recognized  as  the  great  masters  in  every  branch 
of  knowledge.  Let  him  buy  second-hand  books  rather  than 
read  their  contents  in  new  ones.  To  be  sure,  it  is  easy  to  add 
to  any  new  discovery — inventis  aliquid  addere  facile  est ;  and, 
therefore,  the  student,  after  well  mastering  the  rudiments  of 
his  subje6l,  will  have  to  make  himself  acquainted  with  the 
more  recent  additions  to  the  knowledge  of  it.  And,  in  gener- 
al, the  following  rule  may  be  laid  down  here  as  elsewhere  :  if 
a  thing  is  new,  it  is  seldom  good  ;  because  if  it  is  good,  it  is 
only  for  a  short  time  new. 

What  the  address  is  to  a  letter,  the  title  should  be  to  a  book  ; 
in  other  words,  its  main  obje6l  should  be  to  bring  the  book  to 
those  amongst  the  public  who  will  take  an  interest  in  its  con- 
tents. It  should,  therefore,  be  expressive  ;  and  since  by  its 
very  nature  it  must  be  short,  it  should  be  concise,  laconic, 
pregnant,  and  if  possible  give  the  contents  in  one  word.  A 
prolix  title  is  bad  ;  and  so  is  one  that  says  nothing,  or  is  ob- 
scure and  ambiguous,  or  even,  it  may  be,  false  and  misleading  ; 
this  last  may  possibly  involve  the  book  in  the  same  fate  as 
overtakes  a  wrongly  addressed  letter.  The  worst  titles  of  all 
are  those  which  have  been  stolen,  those,  I  mean,  which  have 
already  been  borne  by  other  books  ;  for  they  are  in  the  first 
place  a  plagiarism,  and  secondly  the  most  convincing  proof  of 
a  total  lack  of  originality  in  the  author.  A  man  who  has  not 
enough  originality  to  invent  a  new  title  for  his  book,  will  be 
still  less  able  to  give  it  new  contents.  Akin  to  these  stolen 
tides  are  those  which  have  been  imitated,  that  is  to  say,  stolen 


l8  THE  ART  OF   LITERATURE. 

to  the  extent  of  one  half ;  for  instance,  long  after  I  had  pro- 
duced my  treatise  On  Will  in  Nature^  Oersted  wrote  a  book 
entitled  On  Mind  in  Nature. 

A  book  can  never  be  anything  more  than  the  impress  of 
its  author's  thoughts  ;  and  the  value  of  these  will  lie  either  in 
the  matter  about  which  he  has  thought,  or  in  ^Hcat  form  which 
his  thoughts  take,  in  other  words,  what  it  is  that  he  has 
thought  about  it. 

The  matter  of  books  is  most  various  ;  and  various  also  are 
the  several  excellences  attaching  to  books  on  the  score  of  their 
matter.  By  matter  I  mean  everything  that  comes  within  the 
domain  of  a<5lual  experience  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  fa6ls  of  history 
and  the  fa<5ls  of  nature,  taken  in  and  by  themselves  and  in 
their  widest  sense.  Here  it  is  the  thing  treated  of,  which  gives 
its  peculiar  chara<5ler  to  the  book  ;  so  that  a  book  can  be  im- 
portant, whoever  it  was  that  wrote  it. 

But  in  regard  to  the  form,  the  peculiar  charaAer  of  a  book 
depends  upon  the  person  who  wrote  it.  It  may  treat  of 
matters  which  are  accessible  to  everyone  and  well  known  ;  but 
it  is  the  way  in  which  they  are  treated,  what  it  is  that  is 
thought  about  them,  that  gives  the  book  its  value  ;  and  this 
comes  from  its  author.  If,  then,  from  this  point  of  view  a  book 
is  excellent  and  beyond  comparison,  so  is  its  author.  It  fol- 
lows that  if  a  writer  is  worth  reading,  his  merit  rises  just  in 
proportion  as  he  owes  little  to  his  matter  ;  therefore,  the  better 
known  and  the  more  hackneyed  this  is,  the  greater  he  will  be. 
The  three  great  tragedians  of  Greece,  for  example,  all  worked 
at  the  same  subje6l-matter. 

So  when  a  book  is  celebrated,  care  should  be  taken  to  note 
whether  it  is  so  on  account  of  its  matter  or  its  form  ;  and  a  dis- 
tinction should  be  made  accordingly. 

Books  of  great  importance  on  account  of  their  matter  may 
proceed  from  very  ordinary  and  shallow  people,  by  the  fact 
that  they  alone  have  had  access  to  this  matter  ;  books,  for  in- 
stance, which  describe  journeys  in  distant  lands,  rare  natural 
phenomena,  or  experiments ;  or  historical  occurrences  of 
which  the  writers  were  witnesses,  or  in  connection  with  which 


ON  AUTHORSHIP.  19 

they  have  spent  much  time  and  trouble  in  the  research  and 
special  study  of  original  documents. 

On  the  other  hand,  where  the  matter  is  accessible  to  every- 
one or  very  well  known,  everything  will  depend  upon  the 
form  ;  and  what  it  is  that  is  thought  about  the  matter  will  give 
the  book  all  the  value  it  possesses.  Here  only  a  really  distin- 
guished man  will  be  able  to  produce  anything  worth  reading  ; 
for  the  others  will  think  nothing  but  what  anyone  else  can 
think.  They  will  just  produce  an  impress  of  their  own  minds  ; 
but  this  is  a  print  of  which  everyone  possesses  the  origiijal. 

However,  the  public  is  very  much  more  concerned  to  have 
matter  than  form  ;  and  for  this  very  reason  it  is  deficient  in  any 
high  degree  of  culture.  The  public  shows  its  preference  in 
this  respect  in  the  most  laughable  way  when  it  comes  to  deal 
with  poetry  j  for  there  it  devotes  much  trouble  to  the  task  of 
tracking  out  the  actual  events  or  personal  circumstances  in  the 
life  of  the  poet  which  served  as  the  occasion  of  his  various 
works  ;  nay,  these  events  and  circumstances  come  in  the  end 
to  be  of  greater  importance  than  the  works  themselves  ;  and 
rather  than  read  Goethe  himself,  people  prefer  to  read  what 
has  been  written  about  him,  and  to  study  the  legend  of  Faust 
more  industriously  than  the  drama  of  that  name.  And  when 
Burger  declared  that '  *  people  would  write  learned  disquisitions 
on  the  question.  Who  Leonora  really  was,"  we  find  this 
literally  fulfilled  in  Goethe's  case  ;  for  we  now  possess  a  great 
many  learned  disquisitions  on  Faust  and  the  legend  attaching 
to  him.  Study  of  this  kind  is,  and  remains,  devoted  to  the 
material  of  the  drama  alone.  To  give  such  preference  to  the 
matter  over  the  form,  is  as  though  a  man  were  to  take  a  fine 
Etruscan  vase,  not  to  admire  its  shape  or  coloring,  but  to 
make  a  chemical  analysis  of  the  clay  and  paint  of  which  it  is 
composed. 

The  attempt  to  produce  an  effect  by  means  of  the  material 
employed — an  attempt  which  panders  to  this  evil  tendency  of 
the  public — is  most  to  be  condemned  in  branches  of  literature 
where  any  merit  there  may  be  lies  expressly  in  the  form  ;  I 


20  THE   ART   OF   LITERATURE. 

mean,  in  poetical  work.  For  all  that,  it  is  not  rare  to  find 
bad  dramatists  trying  to  fill  the  house  by  means  of  the  matter 
about.which  they  write.  For  example,  authors  of  this  kind  do 
not  shrink  from  putting  on  the  stage  any  man  who  is  in  any 
way  celebrated,  no  matter  whether  his  life  may  have  been  en- 
tirely devoid  of  dramatic  incident ;  and  sometimes,  even,  they 
do  not  wait  until  the  persons  immediately  conne6led  with  him 
are  dead. 

The  distinction  between  matter  and  form  to  which  I  am  here 
alluding  also  holds  good  of  conversation.  The  chief  qualities 
which  enable  a  man  to  converse  well  are  intelligence,  discern- 
ment, wit  and  vivacity  :  these  supply  the  form  of  conversa- 
tion. But  it  is  not  long  before  attention  has  to  be  paid  to  the 
matter  of  which  he  speaks  ;  in  other  words,  the  subje<5ls  about 
which  it  is  possible  to  converse  with  him — his  knowledge.  If 
this  is  very  small,  his  conversation  will  not  be  worth  anything, 
unless  he  possesses  the  above-named  formal  qualities  in  a  very 
exceptional  degree  ;  for  he  will  have  nothing  to  talk  about  but 
those  fads  of  life  and  nature  which  everybody  knows.  It  will 
be  just  the  opposite,  however,  if  a  man  is  deficient  in  these 
formal  qualities,  but  has  an  amount  of  knowledge  which  lends 
value  to  what  he  says.  This  value  will  then  depend  entirely 
upon  the  matter  of  his  conversation  ;  for,  as  the  Spanish  pro- 
verb has  it,  mas  sabe  el  necio  en  su  casa,  que  el  sabio  en  la 
agena — a  fool  knows  more  of  his  own  business  than  a  wise 
man  does  of  others. 


-   t.s?'*-   -■J-t--.  ij    ; 


ON  STYLE. 

STYLE  is  the  physiognomy  of  the  mind,  and  a  safer  index 
to  character  than  the  face.  To  imitate  another  man's 
style  is  like  wearing  a  mask,  which,  be  it  never  so  fine,  is  not 
long  in  arousing  disgust  and  abhorrence,  because  it  is  lifeless  ; 
so  that  even  the  ugliest  living  face  is  better.  Hence  those 
who  write  in  Latin  and  copy  the  manner  of  ancient  authors, 
may  be  said  to  speak  through  a  mask  ;  the  reader,  it  is  true, 
hears  what  they  say,  but  he  cannot  observe  their  physiognomy 
too  ;  he  cannot  see  their  style.  With  the  Latin  works  of 
writers  who  think  for  themselves,  the  case  is  different,  and 
their  style  is  visible  ;  writers,  I  mean,  who  have  not  conde- 
scended to  any  sort  of  imitation,  such  as  Scotus  Erigena, 
Petrarch,  Bacon,  Descartes,  Spinoza,  and  many  others.  An 
affectation  in  style  is  like  making  grimaces.  Further,  the 
language  in  which  a  man  writes  is  the  physiognomy  of  the 
nation  to  which  he  belongs  ;  and  here  there  are  many  hard 
and  fast  differences,  beginning  from  the  language  of  the 
Greeks,  down  to  that  of  the  Caribbean  islanders. 

To  form  a  provisional  estimate  of  the  value  of  a  writer's" 
productions,  it  is  not  diredlly  necessary  to  know  the  subject 
on  which  he  has  thought,  or  what  it  is  that  he  has  said  about 
it ;  that  would  imply  a  perusal  of  all  his  works.  It  will  be 
enough,  in  the  main,  to  know  how  he  has  thought  This, 
which  means  the  essential  temper  or  general  quality  of  his 
mind,  may  be  precisely  determined  by  his  style.  A  man's 
style  shows  the/^rwa/  nature  of  all  his  thoughts — the  formal 
nature  which  can  never  change,  be  the  subjedl  or  the  chara<5ler 
of  his  thoughts  what  it  may  :  it  is,  as  it  were,   the  dough  out 


22  THE   ART    OF    LITERATURE. 

of  which  all  the  contents  of  his  mind  are  kneaded.  When 
Eulenspiegel  was  asked  how  long  it  would  take  to  walk  to  the 
next  village,  he  gave  the  seemingly  incongruous  answer : 
Walk.  He  wanted  to  find  out  by  the  man's  pace  the  distance 
he  would  cover  in  a  given  time.  In  the  same  way,  when  I 
have  read  a  few  pages  of  an  author,  I  know  fairly  well  how  far 
he  can  bring  me. 

Every  mediocre  writer  tries  to  mask  his  own  natural  style, 
because  in  his  heart  he  knows  the  truth  of  what  I  am  saying. 
He  is  thus  forced,  at  the  outset,  to  give  up  any  attempt  at  be- 
ing frank  or  naive — a  privilege  which  is  thereby  reserved  for 
superior  minds,  conscious  of  their  own  worth,  and  therefore 
sure  of  themselves.  What  I  mean  is  that  these  everyday 
writers  are  absolutely  unable  to  resolve  upon  writing  just  as 
they  think  ;  because  they  have  a  notion  that,  were  they  to  do 
so,  their  work  might  possibly  look  very  childish  and  simple. 
For  all  that,  it  would  not  be  without  its  value.  If  they  would 
only  go  honestly  to  work,  and  say,  quite  simply,  the  things 
they  have  really  thought,  and  just  as  they  have  thought  them, 
these  writers  would  be  readable  and,  within  their  own  proper 
sphere,  even  instructive. 

But  instead  of  that,  they  try  to  make  the  reader  believe 
that  their  thoughts  have  gone  much  further  and  deeper  than 
is  really  the  case.  They  say  what  they  have  to  say  in  long 
sentences  that  wind  about  in  a  forced  and  unnatural  way ; 
they  coin  new  words  and  write  prolix  periods  which  go  round 
and  round  the  thought  and  wrap  it  up  in  a  sort  of  disguise. 
They  tremble  between  the  two  separate  aims  of  communica- 
ing  what  they  want  to  say  and  of  concealing  it.  Their  objedl 
is  to  dress  it  up  so  that  it  may  look  learned  or  deep,  in  order 
to  give  people  the  impression  that  there  is  very  much  more  in 
it  than  for  the  moment  meets  the  eye.  They  either  jot  down 
their  thoughts  bit  by  bit,  in  short,  ambiguous,  and  paradoxi- 
cal sentences,  which  apparently  mean  much  more  than  they 
say, — of  this  kind  of  writing  Schelling's  treatises  on  natural 
philosophy  are  a  splendid  instance  ;  or  else  they  hold  forth 
with  a  deluge  of  words  and  the  most  intolerable  diffusiveness, 


ON  STYLE.  23 

as  though  no  end  of  fuss  were  necessary  to  make  the  reader 
understand  the  deep  meaning  of  their  sentences,  whereas  it  is 
some  quite  simple  if  not  actually  trivial  idea, — examples  of 
which  may  be  found  in  plenty  in  the  popular  works  of  Fichte, 
and  the  philosophical  manuals  of  a  hundred  other  miserable 
dunces  not  worth  mentioning  ;  or,  again,  they  try  to  write  in 
some  particular  style  which  they  have  been  pleased  to  take  up 
and  think  very  grand,  a  style,  for  example,  par  excellence  ^ro- 
found  and  scientific,  where  the  reader  is  tormented  to  death 
by  the  narcotic  effect  of  long-spun  periods  without  a  single 
idea  in  them, — such  as  are  furnished  in  a  special  measure  by 
those  most  impudent  of  all  mortals,  the  Hegelians  ;  *  or  it  may 
be  that  it  is  an  intellectual  style  they  have  striven  after,  where 
it  seems  as  though  their  obje6l  were  to  go  crazy  altogether  ; 
and  so  on  in  many  other  cases.  All  these  endeavors  to  put 
off  the  nascetur  ridiculus  mus — to  avoid  showing  the  funny 
little  creature  that  is  born  after  such  mighty  throes — often 
make  it  difficult  to  know  what  it  is  that  they  really  mean. 
And  then,  too,  they  write  down  words,  nay,  even  whole  sen- 
tences, without  attaching  any  meaning  to  them  themselves,  but 
in  the  hope  that  some  one  else  will  get  sense  out  of  them. 

And  what  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  ?  Nothing  but  the 
untiring  effort  to  sell  words  for  thoughts  ;  a  mode  of  merchan- 
dise that  is  always  trying  to  make  fresh  openings  for  itself,  and 
by  means  of  odd  expressions,  turns  of  phrase,  and  combina- 
tions of  every  sort,  whether  new  or  used  in  a  new  sense,  to 
produce  the  appearance  of  intelledl  in  order  to  make  up  for 
the  very  painfully  felt  lack  of  it. 

It  is  amusing  to  see  how  writers  with  this  objedl  in  view  will 
attempt  first  one  mannerism  and  then  another,  as  though  they 
were  putting  on  the  mask  of  intelledl !  This  mask  may  pos- 
sibly deceive  the  inexperienced  for  a  while,  until  it  is  seen  to 
be  a  dead  thing,  with  no  life  in  it  at  all ;  it  is  then  laughed  at 
and  exchanged  for  another.     Such  an  author  will  at  one  mo- 

"  In  their  Hegel-gazette,  commonly  kno\vn  as  Jahrbiicher  der  wiss- 
enschaftlichen  Literatur. 


24  THE   ART    OF    LITERATURE. 

ment  write  in  a  dithyrambic  vein,  as  though  he  were  tipsy  ;  at 
another,  nay,  on  the  very  next  page,  he  will  be  pompous,  se- 
vere, profoundly  learned  and  prolix,  stumbling  on  in  the  most 
cumbrous  way  and  chopping  up  everything  very  small  ;  like 
the  late  Christian  Wolf,  only  in  a  modern  dress.  Longest  of 
all  lasts  the  mask  of  unintelligibility  ;  but  this  is  only  in 
Germany,  whither  it  was  introduced  by  Fichte,  perfe6led  by 
Schelling,  and  carried  to  its  highest  pitch  in  Hegel — always 
with  the  best  results. 

And  yet  nothing  is  easier  than  to  write  so  that  no  one  can 
understand  ;  just  as  contrarily,  nothing  is  more  difficult  than 
to  express  deep  things  in  such  a  way  that  every  one  must 
necessarily  grasp  them.  All  the  arts  and  tricks  I  have  been 
mentioning  are  rendered  superfluous  if  the  author  really  has 
any  brains  ;  for  that  allows  him  to  show  himself  as  he  is,  and 
confirms  to  all  time  Horace's  maxim  that  good  sense  is  the 
source  and  origin  of  good  style  : — 

Scribendi  recte  sapere  est  et  principium  et  fons. 
But  those  authors  I  have  named  are  like  certain  workers  in 
metal,  who  try  a  hundred  different  compounds  to  take  the 
place  of  gold — the  only  metal  which  can  never  have  any  sub- 
stitute. Rather  than  do  that,  there  is  nothing  against  which 
a  writer  should  be  more  upon  his  guard  than  the  manifest  en- 
deavor to  exhibit  more  intelledl  than  he  really  has  ;  because 
this  makes  the  reader  suspect  that  he  possesses  very  little  ; 
since  it  is  always  the  case  that  if  a  man  affects  anything,  what- 
ever it  may  be,  it  is  just  there  that  he  is  deficient. 

That  is  why  it  is  praise  to  an  author  to  say  that  he  is  iiaive  ; 
it  means  that  he  need  not  shrink  from  showing  himself  as  he 
is.  Generally  speaking,  to  be  naive  is  to  be  attractive  ;  while 
lack  of  naturalness  is  everywhere  repulsive.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  we  find  that  every  really  great  writer  tries  to  express  his 
thoughts  as  purely,  clearly,  definitely  and  shortly  as  possible. 
Simplicity  has  always  been  held  to  be  a  mark  of  truth  ;  it  is 
also  a  mark  of  genius.  Style  receives  its  beauty  from  the 
thought  it  expresses  ;  but  with  sham -thinkers  the  thoughts 


ON  STYLE.  2$ 

are  supposed  to  be  fine  because  of  the  style.  Style  is  nothing 
but  the  mere  silhouette  of  thought ;  and  an  obscure  or  bad 
style  means  a  dull  or  confused  brain. 

The  first  rule,  then,  for  a  good  style  is  that  /he  author 
should  have  something  to  say  ;  nay,  this  is  in  itself  almost  all 
that  is  necessary.  Ah,  how  much  it  means  !  The  neglecS  of 
this  rule  is  a  fundamental  trait  in  the  philosophical  writing, 
and,  in  fact,  in  all  the  reflective  literature,  of  my  country,  more 
especially  since  Fichte.  These  writers  all  let  it  be  seen  that 
they  want  to  appear  as  though  they  had  something  to  say  ; 
whereas  they  have  nothing  to  say.  Writing  of  this  kind  was 
brought  in  by  the  pseudo-philosophers  at  the  Universities, 
and  now  it  is  current  everywhere,  even  among  the  first  liter- 
ary notabilities  of  the  age.  It  is  the  mother  of  that  strained 
and  vague  style,  where  there  seem  to  be  two  or  even  more 
meanings  in  the  sentence;  also  of  that  prolix  and  cumbrous 
manner  of  expression,  called  le  stile  evipese ;  again,  of  that 
mere  waste  of  words  which  consists  in  pouring  them  out  like 
a  flood  ;  finally,  of  that  trick  of  concealing  the  direst  poverty 
of  thought  under  a  farrago  of  never-ending  chatter,  which 
clacks  away  like  a  windmill  and  quite  stupefies  one — stuflt 
which  a  man  may  read  for  hours  together  without  getting  hold 
of  a  single  clearly  expressed  and  definite  idea.'  However, 
people  are  easy-going,  and  they  have  formed  the  habit  of 
reading  page  upon  page  of  all  sorts  of  such  verbiage,  without 
having  any  particular  idea  of  what  the  author  really  means. 
They  fancy  it  is  all  as  it  should  be,  and  fail  to  discover  that  he 
is  writing  simply  for  writing's  sake. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  good  author,   fertile  in  ideas,  soon 

wins   his  reader's  confidence  that,  when  he  writes,    he  has 

really  and  truly  something  to  say  ;  and  this  gives  the  inteUi- 

gent  reader  patience  to  follow  him  with  attention.     Such  an 

author,  just  because  he  really  has  something  to  say,  will  never 

fail  to  express  himself  in  the  simplest  and  most  straightforward 

•  Select  examples  of  the  art  of  writing  in  this  style  are  to  be  found 
almost /aj«>«  in  the/aArd«i^A^r  published  at  Halle,  afterwards  called 
the  Deutschen  Jahrbucher. 


26  THE   ART    OF   LITERATURE. 

manner  ;  because  his  obje<5t  is  to  awake  the  very  same  thought 
in  the  reader  that  he  has  in  himself,  and  no  other.  So  he  will 
be  able  to  affirm  with  Boileau  that  his  thoughts  are  everywhere 
open  to  the  light  of  day,  and  that  his  verse  always  says  some- 
thing, whether  it  says  it  well  or  ill: — 

Ma  pensee  au  grand  jour  partout  s'offre  et  s' expose, 
Et  mon  vers,  bien  ou  tnal,  dit  toujours  quelque  chose  : 

while  of  the  writers  previously  described  it  may  be  asserted, 

in  the  words  of  the  same  poet,  that  they  talk  much  and  never 

say  anything  at  all — qiiiparlant  beaucoup  ne  disent jamais  rien. 

Another  characteristic  of  such  writers  is  that  they  always 
avoid  a  positive  assertion  wherever  they  can  possibly  do 
so,  in  order  to  leave  a  loophole  for  escape  in  case  of  need. 
Hence  they  never  fail  to  choose  the  more  abstract  way  of  ex- 
pressing themselves  ;  whereas  intelligent  people  use  the  more 
concrete  ;  because  the  latter  brings  things  more  within  the  range 
of  actual  demonstration,  which  is  the  source  of  all  evidence. 

There  are  many  examples  proving  this  preference  for  ab- 
stract expression  ;  and  a  particularly  ridiculous  one  is  afforded 
by  the  use  of  the  verb  to  coyidiiion  in  the  sense  of /<?  cause  or  to 
produce.  People  say  to  condition  something  instead  oito  cause 
it,  because  being  abstra6l  and  indefinite  it  says  less  ;  it  affirms 
that  A  cannot  happen  without  B,  instead  of  that  A  is  caused 
by  B.  A  back  door  is  always  left  open  ;  and  this  suits  people 
whose  secret  knowledge  of  their  own  incapacity  inspires  them 
with  a  perpetual  terror  of  all  positive  assertion  ;  while  with 
other  people  it  is  merely  the  effedt  of  that  tendency  by  which 
everything  that  is  stupid  in  literature  or  bad  in  life  is  immedi- 
ately imitated — a  fa6l  proved  in  either  case  by  the  rapid  way 
in  which  it  spreads.  The  Englishman  uses  his  own  judgment 
in  what  he  writes  as  well  as  in  what  he  does  ;  but  there  is  no 
nation  of  which  this  eulogy  is  less  true  than  of  the  Germans. 
The  consequence  of  this  state  of  things  is  that  the  word  cause 
has  of  late  almost  disappeared  from  the  language  of  literature, 
and  people  talk  only  of  condition.  The  fact  is  worth  mention- 
ing because  it  is  so  characteristically  ridiculous. 


ON  STYLE.  27 

The  very  fa(ft  that  these  commonplace  authors  are  never 
more  than  half- conscious  when  they  write,  would  be  enough 
to  account  for  their  dullness  of  mind  and  the  tedious  things 
they  produce.  I  say  they  are  only  half-conscious,  because 
they  really  do  not  themselves  understand  the  meaning  of  the 
words  they  use  :  they  take  words  ready-made  and  commit 
them  to  memory.  Hence  when  they  write,  it  is  not  so  much 
words  as  whole  phrases  that  they  put  together— phrases  ba- 
nales.  This  is  the  explanation  of  that  palpable  lack  of  clearly- 
expressed  thought  in  what  they  say.  The  fadl  is  that  they  do 
not  possess  the  die  to  give  this  stamp  to  their  writing  ;  clear 
thought  of  their  own  is  just  what  they  have  not  got.  And 
what  do  we  find  in  its  place? — a  vague,  enigmatical  intermix- 
ture of  words,  current  phrases,  hackneyed  terms,  and  fashion- 
able expressions.  The  result  is  that  the  foggy  stuff  they  write 
is  like  a  page  printed  with  very  old  type. 

On  the  other  hand,  an  intelligent  author  really  speaks  to  us 
when  he  writes,  and  that  is  why  he  is  able  to  rouse  our  in- 
terest and  commune  with  us.  It  is  the  intelligent  author  alone 
who  puts  individual  words  together  with  a  full  consciousness 
of  their  meaning,  and  chooses  them  with  deliberate  design. 
Consequently,  his  discourse  stands  to  that  of  the  writer  de- 
scribed above,  much  as  a  picture  that  has  been  really  painted, 
to  one  that  has  been  produced  by  the  use  of  a  stencil.  In 
the  one  case,  every  word,  every  touch  of  the  brush,  has  a 
special  purpose  ;  in  the  other,  all  is  done  mechanically.  The 
same  distinction  may  be  observed  in  music.  For  just  as 
Lichtenberg  says  that  Garrick's  soul  seemed  to  be  in  every 
muscle  in  his  body,  so  it  is  the  omnipresence  of  intelle6l  that 
always  and  everywhere  chara6terizes  the  work  of  genius. 

I  have  alluded  to  the  tediousness  which  marks  the  works  of 
these  writers  ;  and  in  this  conne6tion  it  is  to  be  observed, 
generally,  that  tediousness  is  of  two  kinds  ;  obje6live  and  sub- 
je6live.  A  work  is  objedlively  tedious  when  it  contains  the 
defe<5l  in  question  ;  that  is  to  say,  when  its  author  has  no  per- 
feftly  clear  thought  or  knowledge  to  communicate.    For  if  a  man 


28  THE   ART  OF   LITERATURE. 

has  any  clear  thought  or  knowledge  in  him,  his  aim  will  be  to 
communicate  it,  and  he  will  dire<5l  his  energies  to  this  end  ;  so 
that  the  ideas  he  furnishes  are  everywhere  clearly  expressed. 
The  result  is  that  he  is  neither  diffuse,  nor  unmeaning,  nor 
confused,  and  consequently  not  tedious.  In  such  a  case,  even 
though  the  author  is  at  bottom  in  error,  the  error  is  at  any 
rate  clearly  worJced  out  and  well  thought  over,  so  that  it  is  at 
least  formally  corre6l  ;  and  thus  some  value  always  attaches 
to  the  work.  But  for  the  same  reason  a  work  that  is  object- 
ively tedious  is  at  all  times  devoid  of  any  value  whatever. 

The  other  kind  of  tediousness  is  only  relative  :  a  reader 
may  find  a  work  dull  because  he  has  no  interest  in  the  ques- 
tion treated  of  in  it,  and  this  means  that  his  intelle6l  is  re- 
stricted. The  best  work  may,  therefore,  be  tedious  subject- 
ively, tedious,  I  mean,  to  this  or  that  particular  person  ;  just 
as,  contrarily,  the  worst  work  may  be  subjectively  engrossing 
to  this  or  that  particular  person  who  has  an  interest  in  the 
question  treated  of,  or  in  the  writer  of  the  book. 

It  would  generally  serve  writers  in  good  stead  if  they  would 
see  that,  whilst  a  man  should,  if  possible,  think  like  a  great 
genius,  he  should  talk  the  same  language  as  everyone  else. 
Authors  should  use  common  words  to  say  uncommon  things. 
But  they  do  just  the  opposite.  We  find  them  trying  to  wrap 
up  trivial  ideas  in  grand  words,  and  to  clothe  their  very  ordi- 
nary thoughts  in  the  most  extraordinary  phrases,  the  most 
far-fetched,  unnatural,  and  out-of-the-way  expressions.  Their 
sentences  perpetually  stalk  about  on  stilts.  They  take  so 
much  pleasure  in  bombast,  and  write  in  such  a  high-flown, 
bloated,  affected,  hyperbolical  and  acrobatic  style  that  their 
prototype  is  Ancient  Pistol,  whom  his  friend  Falstaff  once  im- 
patiently told  to  say  what  he  had  to  say  like  a  man  of  this 
world.  * 

There  is   no   expression   in   any    other  language    exaCtly 
answering  to  the  French  stile  empese ;  but  the  thing  itself  ex- 
ists all  the  more  often.     When  associated  with  affectation,  it 
^  King  Henry  IV.,    Part  II.  Act  v.  Sc.  3. 


ON  STYLE.  29 

is  in  literature  what  assumption  of  dignity,  grand  airs  and 
primness  are  in  society  ;  and  equally  intolerable.  Dullness  of 
mind  is  fond  of  donning  this  dress  ;  just  as  in  ordinary  life  it 
is  stupid  people  who  like  being  demure  and  formal. 

An  author  who  writes  in  the  prim  style  resembles  a  man 
who  dresses  himself  up  in  order  to  avoid  being  confounded  or 
put  on  the  same  level  with  the  mob — a  risk  never  run  by  the 
gentleman,  even  in  his  worst  clothes.  The  plebeian  may  be 
known  by  a  certain  showiness  of  attire  and  a  wish  to  have 
everything  spick  and  span  ;  and,  in  the  same  way,  the  com- 
monplace person  is  betrayed  by  his  style. 

Nevertheless,  an  author  follows  a  false  aim  if  he  tries  to 
write  exadtly  as  he  speaks.  There  is  no  style  of  writing  but 
should  have  a  certain  trace  of  kinship  with  the  epigraphic  or 
monumental  style,  which  is,  indeed,  the  ancestor  of  all  styles. 
For  an  author  to  write  as  he  speaks  is  just  as  reprehensible 
as  the  opposite  fault,  to  speak  as  he  writes  ;  for  this  gives  a 
pedantic  effect  to  what  he  says,  and  at  the  same  time  makes 
him  hardly  intelligible. 

An  obscure  and  vague  manner  of  expression  is  always  and 
everywhere  a  very  bad  sign.  In  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a 
hundred  it  comes  from  vagueness  of  thought  ;  and  this  again 
almost  always  meaHS  that  there  is  something  radically  wrong 
and  incongruous  about  the  thought  itself — in  a  word,  that  it  is 
incorre6l.  When  a  right  thought  springs  up  in  the  mind,  it 
strives  after  expression  and  is  not  long  in  reaching  it  ;  for 
clear  thought  easily  finds  words  to  fit  it.  If  a  man  is  ca- 
pable of  thinking  anything  at  all,  he  is  also  always  able  to 
express  it  in  clear,  intelligible,  and  unambiguous  terms.  Those 
writers  who  construCl  difficult,  obscure,  involved,  and  equivo- 
cal sentences,  most  certamly  do  not  know  aright  what  it  is  that 
they  want  to  say  :  they  have  only  a  dull  consciousness  of  it, 
which  is  still  in  the  stage  of  struggle  to  shape  itself  as  thought. 
Often,  indeed,  their  desire  is  to  conceal  from  themselves  and 
others  that  they  really  have  nothing  at  all  to  say.  They  wish 
to  appear  to  know  what  they  do  not  know,  to  think  what  they 


3©  THE   ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

do  not  think,  to  say  what  they  do  not  say.  If  a  man  has  some 
real  communication  to  make,  which  will  he  choose — an  indis- 
tin(5l  or  a  clear  way  of  expressing  himself?  Even  Quintilian 
remarks  that  things  which  are  said  by  a  highly  educated  man 
are  often  easier  to  understand  and  much  clearer  ;  and  that  the 
less  educated  a  man  is,  the  more  obscurely  he  will  write — 
plerumque  accidit  tit  faciliora  sint  ad  intelligendum  et  lucidiora 
multo  que  a  donissimo  quoque  dicuntur  ....  Erit  ergo 
etiam  obscurior  quo  quisque  deterior. 

An  author  should  avoid  enigmatical  phrases  ;  he  should 
know  whether  he  wants  to  say  a  thing  or  does  not  want  to  say 
it.  It  is  this  indecision  of  style  that  makes  so  many  writers 
insipid.  The  only  case  that  offers  an  exception  to  this  rule 
arises  when  it  is  necessary  to  make  a  remark  that  is  in  some 
way  improper. 

As  exaggeration  generally  produces  an  effedl  the  opposite  of 
that  aimed  at  ;  so  words,  it  is  true,  serve  to  make  thought  in- 
telligible— but  only  up  to  a  certain  point.  If  words  are  heaped 
up  beyond  it,  the  thought  becomes  more  and  more  obscure 
again.  To  find  where  the  point  lies  is  the  problem  of  style, 
and  the  business  of  the  critical  faculty  ;  for  a  word  too  much 
always  defeats  its  purpose.  This  is  what  Voltaire  means  when 
he  says  that  the  adje6live  is  the  enemy  of  the  substantive.  But, 
as  we  have  seen,  many  people  try  to  conceal  their  poverty  of 
thought  under  a  flood  of  verbiage. 

Accordingly  let  all  redundancy  be  avoided,  all  stringing  to- 
gether of  remarks  which  have  no  meaning  and  are  not  worth 
perusal.  A  writer  must  make  a  sparing  use  of  the  reader's 
time,  patience  and  attention  ;  so  as  to  lead  him  to  believe  that 
his  author  writes  what  is  worth  careful  study,  and  will  reward 
the  time  spent  upon  it.  It  is  always  better  to  omit  some- 
thing good  than  to  add  that  which  is  not  worth  saying 
at  all.  This  is  the  right  application  of  Hesiod's  maxim, 
•nliov  fiiiiav'Ku.vro^'^- — the  half  is  more  than  the  whole.  Le  secret 
pour  Hre  ennuyeux,  c'est  de  tout  dire.     Therefore,  if  possible, 

'  Works  and  Days,  40. 


ON  STYLE.  31 

the  quintessence  only  !  mere  leading  thoughts  !  nothing  that 
the  reader  would  think  for  himself.  To  use  many  words  to 
communicate  few  thoughts  is  everywhere  the  unmistakable 
sign  of  mediocrity.  To  gather  much  thought  into  few  words 
stamps  the  man  of  genius. 

Truth  is  most  beautiful  undraped  ;  and  the  impression  it 
makes  is  deep  in  proportion  as  its  expression  has  been  simple. 
This  is  so,  partly  because  it  then  takes  unobstru6ted  posses- 
sion of  the  hearer's  whole  soul,  and  leaves  him  no  by-thought 
to  distradt  him ;  partly,  also,  because  he  feels  that  here  he  is 
not  being  corrupted  or  cheated  by  the  arts  of  rhetoric,  but  that 
all  the  effeft  of  what  is  said  comes  from  the  thing  itself  For 
instance,  what  declamation  on  the  vanity  of  human  existence 
could  ever  be  more  telling  than  the  words  of  Job  ?  Ma7i  that 
is  born  of  a  woman  hath  but  a  short  time  to  live  and  is  full  of 
misery.  He  cometh  up,  and  is  cut  down,  like  a  flower ;  he 
fleeth  as  it  were  a  shadow,  and  never  continueth  in  one  stay. 

For  the  same  reason  Goethe's  naive  poetry  is  incomparably 
greater  than  Schiller's  rhetoric.  It  is  this,  again,  that  makes 
many  popular  songs  so  affe6ling.  As  in  archite6lure  an  excess 
of  decoration  is  to  be  avoided,  so  in  the  art  of  literature  a 
writer  must  guard  against  all  rhetorical  finery,  all  useless  am- 
plication, and  all  superfluity  of  expression  in  general  ;  in  a 
word,  he  must  strive  after  chastity  of  style.  Every  word  that 
can  be  spared  is  hurtful  if  it  remains.  The  law  of  simplicity 
and  naivety  holds  good  of  all  fine  art  ;  for  it  is  quite  possible 
to  be  at  once  simple  and  subUme. 

True  brevity  of  expression  consists  in  everywhere  saying 
only  what  is  worth  saying,  and  in  avoiding  tedious  detail  about 
things  which  everyone  can  supply  for  himself  This  involves 
corre6l  discrimination  between  what  is  necessary  and  what  is 
superfluous.  A  writer  should  never  be  brief  at  the  expense  of 
being  clear,  to  say  nothing  of  being  grammatical.  It  shows 
lamentable  want  of  judgment  to  weaken  the  expression  of  a 
thought,  or  to  stunt  the  meaning  of  a  period  for  the  sake  of 
using  a  few  words  less.  But  this  is  the  precise  endeavor  of 
that  false  brevity  nowadays  so  much  in  vogue,  which  proceeds 


32  THE   ART   OF   LITERATURE. 

by  leaving  out  useful  words  and  even  by  sacrificing  grammar 
and  logic.  It  is  not  only  that  such  writers  spare  a  word  by 
making  a  single  verb  or  adjective  do  duty  for  several  different 
periods,  so  that  the  reader,  as  it  were,  has  to  grope  his  way 
through  them  in  the  dark  ;  they  also  pradlice,  in  many  other 
respe<5ls,  an  unseemingly  economy  of  speech,  in  the  effort  to 
effe(5l  what  they  foolishly  take  to  be  brevity  of  expression  and 
conciseness  of  style.  By  omitting  something  that  might  have 
thrown  a  light  over  the  whole  sentence,  they  turn  it  into  a 
conundrum,  which  the  reader  tries  to  solve  by  going  over  it 
again  and  again.  ^ 

It  is  wealth  and  weight  of  thought,  and  nothing  else,  that 
gives  brevity  to  style,  and  makes  it  concise  and  pregnant.  If 
a  writer's  ideas  are  important,  luminous,  and  generally  worth 
communicating,  they  will  necessarily  furnish  matter  and  sub- 
stance enough  to  fill  out  the  periods  which  give  them  expres- 
sion, and  make  these  in  all  their  parts  both  grammatically 
and  verbally  complete  ;  and  so  much  will  this  be  the  case  that 
no  one  will  ever  find  them  hollow,  empty  or  feeble.  The  dic- 
tion will  everywhere  be  brief  and  pregnant,  and  allow  the 
thought  to  find  intelligible  and  easy  expression,  and  even  un- 
fold and  move  about  with  grace. 

Therefore  instead  of  contracting  his  words  and  forms  of 
speech,  let  a  writer  enlarge  his  thoughts.  If  a  man  has  been 
thinned  by  illness  and  finds  his  clothes  too  big,  it  is  not  by 
cutting  them  down,  but  by  recovering  his  usual  bodily  condi- 
tion, that  he  ought  to  make  them  fit  him  again. 

Let  me  here  mention  an  error  of  style  very  prevelent  nowa- 
days, and,  in  the  degraded  state  of  literature  and  the  negledl 
of  ancient  languages,  always  on  the  increase;    I  mean  subjec- 

'  Translator' s  Note. — In  the  original,  Schopenhauer  here  enters  up- 
on a  lengthy  examination  of  certain  common  errors  in  the  writing  and 
speaking  of  German.  His  remarks  are  addressed  to  his  own  country- 
men, and  would  lose  all  point,  even  if  they  were  intelligible,  in  an 
English  translation.  But  for  those  who  pratlice  their  German  by 
conversing  or  corresponding  with  Germans,  let  me  recommend  what 
he  there  says  as  a  useful  corre(^live  to  a  slipshod  style,  such  as  can 
easily  be  contracted  if  it  is  assumed  that  the  natives  of  a  country 
always  know  their  own  language  perfectly. 


ON  STYLE.  33 

tivity.  A  writer  commits  this  error  when  he  thinks  it  enough 
if  he  himself  knows  what  he  means  and  wants  to  say,  and  takes 
no  thought  for  the  reader,  who  is  left  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  it 
as  best  he  can.  This  is  as  though  the  author  were  holding  a 
monologue ;  whereas,  it  ought  to  be  a  dialogue  ;  and  a  dia- 
logue, too,  in  which  he  must  express  himself  all  the  more 
clearly  inasmuch  as  he  cannot  hear  the  questions  of  his  inter- 
locutor. 

Style  should  for  this  very  reason  never  be  subjedtive,  but 
objective ;  and  it  will  not  be  objedlive  unless  the  words  are  so 
set  down  that  they  diredtly  force  the  reader  to  think  precisely 
the  same  thing  as  the  author  thought  when  he  wrote  them. 
Nor  will  this  result  be  obtained  unless  the  author  has  always 
been  careful  to  remember  that  thought  so  far  follows  the  law 
of  gravity  that  it  travels  from  head  to  paper  much  more  easily 
than  from  paper  to  head  ;  so  that  he  must  assist  the  latter  pas- 
sage by  every  means  in  his  power.  If  he  does  this,  a  writer's 
words  will  have  a  purely  obje6tive  effedl,  like  that  of  a  finished 
pi6lure  in  oils  ;  whilst  the  subjective  style  is  not  much  more 
certain  in  its  working  than  spots  on  the  wall,  which  look  like 
figures  only  to  one  whose  phantasy  has  been  accidentally 
aroused  by  them  ;  other  people  see  nothing  but  spots  and 
blurs.  The  difference  in  question  applies  to  literary  method 
as  a  whole  ;  but  it  is  often  established  also  in  particular  in- 
stances. For  example,  in  a  recently  published  work  I  found 
the  following  sentence  :  /  have  not  written  in  order  to  increase 
the  number  of  existing  books.  This  means  just  the  opposite  of 
what  the  writer  wanted  to  say,  and  is  nonsense  as  well. 

He  who  writes  carelessly  confesses  thereby  at  the  very  out- 
set that  he  does  not  attach  much  importance  to  his  own 
thoughts.  For  it  is  only  where  a  man  is  convinced  of  the  truth 
and  importance  of  his  thoughts,  that  he  feels  the  enthusiasm 
necessary  for  an  untiring  and  assiduous  effort  to  find  the  clear- 
est, finest,  and  strongest  expression  for  them, — just  as  for 
sacred  relics  or  priceless  works  of  art  there  are  provided  silvern 
or  golden  receptacles.     It  was  this  feeling  that  led  ancient 


34  THE  ART  OF  LITERATURE. 

authors,  whose  thoughts,  expressed  in  their  own  words,  have 
lived  thousands  of  years,  and  therefore  bear  the  honored  title 
oi  classics,  always  to  write  with  care.  Plato,  indeed,  is  said  to 
have  written  the  introdu6lion  to  his  Republic  seven  times  over 
in  different  ways.* 

As  negle6l  of  dress  betrays  want  of  respe6l  for  the  company 
a  man  meets,  so  a  hasty,  careless,  bad  style  shows  an  outra- 
geous lack  of  regard  for  the  reader,  who  then  rightly  punishes 
it  by  refusing  to  read  the  book.  It  is  especially  amusing  to 
see  reviewers  criticising  the  works  of  others  in  their  own  most 
careless  style — the  style  of  a  hireling.  It  is  as  though  a  judge 
were  to  come  into  court  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers  !  If  I 
see  a  man  badly  and  dirtily  dressed,  I  feel  some  hesitation,  at 
first,  in  entering  into  conversation  with  him  :  and  when,  on 
taking  up  a  book,  I  am  struck  at  once  by  the  negligence  of  its 
style,  I  put  it  away. 

Good  writing  should  be  governed  by  the  rule  that  a  man  can 
think  only  one  thing  clearly  at  a  time  ;  and,  therefore,  that  he 
should  not  be  expe<5ted  to  think  two  or  even  more  things  in  one 
and  the  same  moment.  But  this  is  what  is  done  when  a  writer 
breaks  up  his  principal  sentence  into  little  pieces,  for  the 
purpose  of  pushing  into  the  gaps  thus  made  two  or  three  other 
thoughts  by  way  of  parenthesis  ;  thereby  unnecessarily  and 
wantonly  confusing  the  reader.  And  here  it  is  again  my  own 
countrymen  who  are  chiefly  in  fault.  That  German  lends  itself 
to  this  way  of  writing,  makes  the  thing  possible,  but  does  not 
justify  it.  No  prose  reads  more  easily  or  pleasantly  than 
French,  because,  as  a  rule,  it  is  free  from  the  error  in  question. 
The  Frenchman  strings  his  thoughts  together,  as  far  as  he  can, 
in  the  most  logical  and  natural  order,  and  so  lays  them  before 
his  reader  one  after  the  other  for  convenient  deliberation,  so 
that  every  one  of  them  may  receive  undivided  attention.  The 
German,    on  the  other  hand,   weaves  them  together  into  a 

'  Translator's  Note. — It  is  a  fad  worth  mentioning  that  the  first 
twelve  words  of  the  Republic  are  placed  in  the  exad  order  which 
would  be  natural  in  English. 


ON  STYLE.  35 

sentence  which  he  twists  and  crosses,  and  crosses  and  twists 
again  ;  because  he  wants  to  say  six  things  all  at  once,  instead 
of  advancing  them  one  by  one.  His  aim  should  be  to  attra6l 
and  hold  the  reader's  attention  ;  but,  above  and  beyond  neg- 
le6l  of  this  aim,  he  demands  from  the  reader  that  he  shall  set 
the  above  mentioned  rule  at  defiance,  and  think  three  or 
four  different  thoughts  at  one  and  the  same  time  ;  or  since  that 
is  impossible,  that  his  thoughts  shall  succeed  each  other  as 
quickly  as  the  vibrations  of  a  cord.  In  this  way  an  author 
lays  the  foundation  of  his  stile  empes^,  which  is  then  carried  to 
perfedlion  by  the  use  of  high-flown,  pompous  expressions  to 
communicate  the  simplest  things,  and  other  artifices  of  the 
same  kind. 

In  those  long  sentences  rich  in  involved  parenthesis,  like  a 
box  of  boxes  one  within  another,  and  padded  out  like  roast 
geese  stuffed  with  apples,  it  is  really  the  memory  that  is  chiefly 
taxed  ;  while  it  is  the  understanding  and  the  judgment  which 
should  be  called  into  play,  instead  of  having  their  a6livity 
thereby  a6lually  hindered  and  weakened.'  This  kind  of  sen- 
tence furnishes  the  reader  with  mere  half-phrases,  which  he  is 
then  called  upon  to  collect  carefully  and  store  up  in  his 
memory,  as  though  they  were  the  pieces  of  a  torn  letter,  after- 
wards to  be  completed  and  made  sense  of  by  the  other  halves 
to  which  they  respe6lively  belong.  He  is  expe6led  to  go  on 
reading  for  a  little  without  exercising  any  thought,  nay,  exert- 
ing only  his  memory,  in  the  hope  that,  when  he  comes  to  the 
end  of  the  sentence,  he  may  see  its  meaning  and  so  receive 
something  to  think  about ;  and  he  is  thus  given  a  great  deal 
to  learn  by  heart  before  obtaining  anything  to  understand. 
This  is  manifestly  wrong  and  an  abuse  of  the  reader's  pa- 
tience. 

The  ordinary  writer  has  an  unmistakable  preference  for  this 

'  Translator' s  Note. — This  sentence  in  the  original  is  obviously 
meant  to  illustrate  the  fault  of  which  it  speaks.  It  does  so  by  the  use 
of  a  constru<5lion  very  common  in  German,  but  happily  unknown  in 
Enojlish  ;  where,  however,  the  fault  itself  exists  none  the  less,  though 
in  different  form. 


36  THE   ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

Style,  because  it  causes  the  reader  to  spend  time  and  trouble 
in  understanding  that  which  he  would  have  understood  in  a 
moment  without  it ;  and  this  makes  it  look  as  though  the 
writer  had  more  depth  and  intelligence  than  the  reader.  This 
is,  indeed,  one  of  those  artifices  referred  to  above,  by  means  of 
which  mediocre  authors  unconsciously,  and  as  it  were  by  in- 
stinft,  strive  to  conceal  their  poverty  of  thought  and  give  an 
appearance  of  the  opposite.  Their  ingenuity  in  this  respe6t  ia 
really  astounding. 

It  is  manifestly  against  all  sound  reason  to  put  one  thought 
obliquely  on  top  of  another,  as  though  both  together  formed  a 
wooden  cross.  But  this  is  what  is  done  where  a  writer  inter- 
rupts what  he  has  begun  to  say,  for  the  purpose  of  inserting 
some  quite  alien  matter  ;  thus  depositing  with  the  reader  a 
meaningless  half- sentence,  and  bidding  him  keep  it  until  the 
completion  comes.  It  is  much  as  though  a  man  were  to  treat 
his  guests  by  handing  them  an  empty  plate,  in  the  hope  of 
something  appearing  upon  it.  And  commas  used  for  a  similar 
purpose  belong  to  the  same  family  as  notes  at  the  foot  of  the 
page  and  parenthesis  in  the  middle  of  the  text ;  nay,  all  three 
differ  only  in  degree.  If  Demosthenes  and  Cicero  occasionally 
inserted  words  by  ways  of  parenthesis,  they  would  have  done 
better  to  have  refrained. 

But  this  style  of  writing  becomes  the  height  of  absurdity 
when  the  parenthesis  are  not  even  fitted  into  the  frame  of  the 
sentence,  but  wedged  in  so  as  dire6lly  to  shatter  it.  If,  for  in- 
stance, it  is  an  impertinent  thing  to  interrupt  another  person 
when  he  is  speaking,  it  is  no  less  impertinent  to  interrupt 
oneself  But  all  bad,  careless,  and  hasty  authors,  who  scribble 
with  the  bread  actually  before  their  eyes,  use  this  style  of  writ- 
ing six  times  on  a  page,  and  rejoice  in  it.  It  consists  in — it  is 
advisable  to  give  rule  and  example  together,  wherever  it  is 
possible — breaking  up  one  phrase  in  order  to  glue  in  another. 
Nor  is  it  merely  out  of  laziness  that  they  write  thus.  They  do 
it  out  of  stupidity  ;  they  think  there  is  a  charming  lig^reti 
about  it ;  that  it  gives  life  to  what  they  say.      No  doubt  there 


ON  STYLE.  37 

are  a  few  rare  cases  where  such  a  form  of  sentence  may  be 
pardonable. 

Few  write  in  the  way  in  which  an  architect  builds  ;  who,  be- 
fore he  sets  to  work,  sketches  out  his  plan,  and  thinks  it  over 
down  to  its  smallest  details.  Nay,  most  people  write  only  as 
though  they  were  playing  dominoes  ;  and,  as  in  this  game,  the 
pieces  are  arranged  half  by  design,  half  by  chance,  so  it  is  with 
the  sequence  and  connection  of  their  sentences.  They  only 
have  an  idea  of  what  the  general  shape  of  their  work  will  be, 
and  of  the  aim  they  set  before  themselves.  Many  are  ignorant 
even  of  this,  and  write  as  the  coral-inse<5ls  build  ;  period  joins 
to  period,  and  the  Lord  only  knows  what  the  author  means. 

Life  now-a-days  goes  at  a  gallop  ;  and  the  way  in  which 
this  affedls  literature  is  to  make  it  extremely  superficial  and 
slovenly. 


ON  THE  STUDY  OF  LATIN. 

THE  abolition  of  Latin  as  the  universal  language  of  learned 
men,  together  with  the  rise  of  that  provincialism  which 
attaches  to  national  literatures,  has  been  a  real  misfortune  for 
the  cause  of  knowledge  in  Europe.  For  it  was  chiefly  through 
the  medium  of  the  Latin  language  that  a  learned  public  existed 
in  Europe  at  all — a  public  to  which  every  book  as  it  came  out 
dire6tly  appealed.  The  number  of  minds  in  the  whole  of 
Europe  that  are  capable  of  thinking  and  judging  is  small,  as  it 
is  ;  but  when  the  audience  is  broken  up  and  severed  by  differ- 
ences of  language,  the  good  these  minds  can  do  is  very  much 
weakened.  This  is  a  great  disadvantage  ;  but  a  second  and 
worse  one  will  follow,  namely,  that  the  ancient  languages  will 
cease  to  be  taught  at  all.  The  negle6l  of  them  is  rapidly  gain- 
ing ground  both  in  France  and  Germany. 

If  it  should  really  come  to  this,  then  farewell,  humanity! 
farewell,  noble  taste  and  high  thinking  !  The  age  of  barbarism 
will  return,  in  spite  of  railways,  telegraphs  and  balloons.  We 
shall  thus  in  the  end  lose  one  more  advantage  possessed  by  al 
our  ancestors.  For  Latin  is  not  only  a  key  to  the  knowledge 
of  Roman  antiquity  :  it  also  diredtly  opens  up  to  us  the  Middle 
Age  in  every  country  in  Europe,  and  modern  times  as  well, 
down  to  about  the  year  1750.  Erigena,  for  example,  in  the 
ninth  century,  John  of  Salisbury  in  the  twelfth,  Raimond  Lully 
in  the  thirteenth,  with  a  hundred  others,  speak  straight  to  us 
in  the  very  language  that  they  naturally  adopted  in  thinking 
of  learned  matters.  They  thus  come  quite  close  to  us  even  at 
this  distance  of  time  :  we  are  in  dire(5l  conta6l  with  them,  and 
really  come  to  know  them.  How  would  it  have  been  if  every- 
one of  them  spoke  in  the  language  that  was  peculiar  to  his 

(38) 


ON  THE   STUDY   OF   LATIN.  39 

time  and  country  ?  We  should  not  understand  even  the  half 
of  what  they  said.  A  real  intelle6lual  contact  with  them  would 
be  impossible.  We  should  see  them  like  shadows  on  the 
farthest  horizon,  or,  may  be,  through  the  translator's  telescope. 

It  was  with  an  eye  to  the  advantage  of  writing  in  Latin  that 
Bacon,  as  he  himself  expressly  states,  proceeded  to  translate 
his  Essays  into  that  language,  under  the  title  Sermones  Jideles  ; 
at  which  work  Hobbes  assisted  him.' 

Here  let  me  observe,  by  way  of  parenthesis,  that  when 
patriotism  tries  to  urge  its  claims  in  the  domain  of  knowledge, 
it  commits  an  offence  which  should  not  be  tolerated.  For  in 
those  purely  human  questions  which  interest  all  men  alike, 
where  truth,  insight,  beauty,  should  be  of  sole  account,  what 
can  be  more  impertinent  than  to  let  preference  for  the  nation 
to  which  a  man's  precious  self  happens  to  belong,  affe6t  the 
balance  of  judgment,  and  thus  supply  a  reason  for  doing  vio- 
lence to  truth  and  being  unjust  to  the  great  minds  of  a  foreign 
country  in  order  to  make  much  of  the  smaller  minds  of  one's 
own  !  Still,  there  are  writers  in  every  nation  in  Europe  who 
afford  examples  of  this  vulgar  feeling.  It  is  this  which  led 
Yriarte  to  caricature  them  in  the  thirty-third  of  his  charming 
Literary  Fables."^ 

In  learning  a  language,  the  chief  difificulty  consists  in  mak- 
ing acquaintance  with  every  idea  which   it  expresses,  even 

>  Cf.  Thomae  Hobbes  vita:  Carolopoli  apud  Eleutheriutn  Angli- 
cum,  1681,  p.  22. 

*  Translator's  Note.  Tomas  de  Yriarte  (1750-91),  a  Spanish  poet, 
and  keeper  of  archives  in  the  War  Office  at  Madrid.  His  two  best 
known  works  are  a  dida<5lic  poem,  entitled  La  Musica,  and  the  Fables 
here  quoted,  which  satirize  the  pecuHar  foibles  of  Uterary  men.  They 
have  been  translated  into  many  languages  ;  into  English  by  Rockliffe 
(3rd  edition,  1866).  The  fable  in  question  describes  how,  at  a  picnic 
of  the  animals,  a  discussion  arose  as  to  which  of  them  carried  off  the 
palm  for  superiority  of  talent.  The  praises  of  the  ant,  the  dog,  the 
bee,  and  the  parrot  were  sung  in  turn  ;  but  at  last  the  ostrich  stood  up 
and  declared  for  the  dromedary.  Whereupon  the  dromedary  stood 
up  and  declared  for  the  ostrich.  No  one  could  discover  the  reason 
for  this  mutual  compliment.  Was  it  because  both  were  such  uncouth 
beasts,  or  had  such  long  necks,  or  were  neither  of  them  particularly 
clever  or  beautiful?  or  was  it  because  each  had  a  hump?  No!  said 
the  fox,  you  are  all  zvrong.  Don't  you  see  they  are  both  foreigners  ? 
Cannot  the  same  be  said  of  many  men  of  learning  ? 


40  THE    ART     OF     LITERATURE. 

though  it  should  use  words  for  which  there  is  no  exa6t  equiva- 
lent in  the  mother  tongue  ;  and  this  often  happens.  In  learn- 
ing a  new  language  a  man  has,  as  it  were,  to  mark  out  in  his 
mind  the  boundaries  of  quite  new  spheres  of  ideas,  with  the  re- 
sult that  spheres  of  ideas  arise  where  none  were  before.  Thus 
he  not  only  learns  words,  he  gains  ideas  too. 

This  is  nowhere  so  much  the  case  as  in  learning  ancient  lan- 
guages, for  the  differences  they  present  in  their  mode  of  ex- 
pression as  compared  with  modern  languages  is  greater  than 
can  be  found  amongst  modern  languages  as  compared  with 
one  another.  This  is  shown  by  the  fa6l  that  in  translating  in- 
to Latin,  recourse  must  be  had  to  quite  other  turns  of  phrase 
than  are  used  in  the  original.  The  thought  that  is  to  be  trans- 
lated has  to  be  melted  down  and  recast  ;  in  other  words,  it 
must  be  analyzed  and  then  recomposed.  It  is  just  this  process 
which  makes  the  study  of  the  ancient  languages  contribute  so 
much  to  the  education  of  the  mind. 

It  follows  from  this  that  a  man's  thought  varies  according  to 
the  language  in  which  he  speaks.  His  ideas  undergo  a  fresh 
modification,  a  different  shading,  as  it  were,  in  the  study  of 
every  new  language.  Hence  an  acquaintance  with  many  lan- 
guages is  not  only  of  much  indire6l  advantage,  but  it  is  also  a 
direcl  means  of  mental  culture,  in  that  it  corre6ls  and  matures 
ideas  by  giving  prominence  to  their  many-sided  nature  and 
their  different  varieties  of  meaning,  as  also  that  it  increases 
dexterity  of  thought ;  for  in  the  process  of  learning  many  lan- 
guages, ideas  become  more  and  more  independent  of  words. 
The  ancient  languages  effe6l  this  to  a  greater  degree  than  the 
modern,  in  virtue  of  the  difference  to  which  I  have  alluded. 

From  what  I  have  said,  it  is  obvious  that  to  imitate  the  style 
of  the  ancients  in  their  own  language,  which  is  so  very  much 
superior  to  ours  in  point  of  grammatical  perfection,  is  the  best 
way  of  preparing  for  a  skillful  and  finished  expression  of  thought 
in  the  mother-tongue.  Nay,  if  a  man  wants  to  be  a  great 
writer,  he  must  not  omit  to  do  this  ;  just  as,  in  the  case  of 
sculpture  or  painting,  the  student  must  educate  himself  by 
copying  the  great  masterpieces  of  the  past,  before  proceeding 


ON   THE   STUDY   OF   LATIN.  4I 

to  original  work.  It  is  only  by  learning  to  write  Latin  that  a 
man  conies  to  treat  didlion  as  an  art.  The  material  in  this  art 
is  language,  which  must  therefore  be  handled  with  the  greatest 
care  and  delicacy. 

The  result  of  such  study  is  that  a  writer  will  pay  keen  atten- 
tion to  the  meaning  and  value  of  words,  their  order  and  con- 
ne6lion,  their  grammatical  forms.  He  will  learn  how  to  weigh 
them  with  precision,  and  so  become  an  expert  in  the  use  of 
that  precious  instrument  which  is  meant  not  only  to  express 
valuable  thought,  but  to  preserve  it  as  well.  Further,  he  will 
learn  to  feel  respe6l  for  the  language  in  which  he  writes  and 
thus  be  saved  from  any  attempt  to  remodel  it  by  arbitrary  and 
capricious  treatment.  Without  this  schooling,  a  man's  writ- 
ing may  easily  degenerate  into  mere  chatter. 

To  be  entirely  ignorant  of  the  Latin  language  is  like  being 
in  a  fine  country  on  a  misty  day.  The  horizon  is  extremely 
limited.  Nothing  can  be  seen  clearly  except  that  which  is 
quite  close  ;  a  few  steps  beyond,  everything  is  buried  in  ob- 
scurity. But  the  Latinist  has  a  wide  view,  embracing  modern 
times,  the  Middle  Age  and  Antiquity  ;  and  his  mental  horizon 
is  still  further  enlarged  if  he  studies  Greek  or  even  Sanscrit. 

If  a  man  knows  no  Latin,  he  belongs  to  the  vulgar,  even 
though  he  be  a  great  virtuoso  on  the  ele6lrical  machine  and 
have  the  base  of  hydrofluoric  acid  in  his  crucible. 

There  is  no  better  recreation  for  the  mind  than  the  study  of 
the  ancient  classics.  Take  any  one  of  them  into  your  hand,  be 
it  only  for  half  an  hour,  and  you  will  feel  yourself  refreshed, 
relieved,  purified,  ennobled,  strengthened  ;  just  as  though  you 
had  quenched  your  thirst  at  some  pure  spring.  Is  this  the 
effe€i  of  the  old  language  and  its  perfed  expression,  or  is  it 
the  greatness  of  the  minds  whose  works  remain  unharmed  and 
unweakened  by  the  lapse  of  a  thousand  years  ?  Perhaps  both 
together.  But  this  I  know.  If  the  threatened  calamity  should 
ever  come,  and  the  ancient  languages  cease  to  be  taught,  a 
new  literature  will  arise,  of  such  barbarous,  shallow  and  worth- 
less stuff  as  never  was  seen  before. 


ON  MEN  OF  LEARNING. 

WHEN  one  sees  the  number  and  variety  of  institutions 
which  exist  for  the  purposes  of  education,  and  the 
vast  throng  of  scholars  and  masters,  one  might  fancy  the 
human  race  to  be  very  much  concerned  about  truth  and  wis- 
dom. But  here,  too,  appearances  are  deceptive.  The  masters 
teach  in  order  to  gain  money,  and  strive,  not  after  wisdom, 
but  the  outward  show  and  reputation  of  it ;  and  the  scholars 
learn,  not  for  the  sake  of  knowledge  and  insight,  but  to  be 
able  to  chatter  and  give  themselves  airs.  Every  thirty  years  a 
new  race  comes  into  the  world — a  youngster  that  knows  noth- 
ing about  anything,  and  after  summarily  devouring  in  all  haste 
the  results  of  human  knowledge  as  they  have  been  accumulated 
for  thousands  of  years,  aspires  to  be  thought  cleverer  than  the 
whole  of  the  past.  For  this  purpose  he  goes  to  the  University, 
and  takes  to  reading  books — new  books,  as  being  of  his  own 
age  and  standing.  Everything  he  reads  must  be  briefly  put, 
must  be  new  !  he  is  new  himself  Then  he  falls  to  and  criti- 
cises. And  here  I  am  not  taking  the  slightest  account  of 
studies  pursued  for  the  sole  obje6t  of  making  a  living. 

Students,  and  learned  persons  of  all  sorts  and  every  age,  aim 
as  a  rule  at  acquiring  information  rather  than  insight.  They 
pique  themselves  upon  knowing  about  everything — stones, 
plants,  battles,  experiments,  and  all  the  books  in  existence.  It 
never  occurs  to  them  that  information  is  only  a  means  of  in- 
sight, and  in  itself  of  little  or  no  value  ;  that  it  is  his  way  of 
thinking  that  makes  a  man  a  philosopher.  When  I  hear  of 
these  portents  of  learning  and  their  imposing  erudition,  I  some- 
times say  to  myself :    Ah,  how  little  they  must  have  had  to 

(42) 


ON   MEN  OF  LEARNING.  43 

think  about,  to  have  been  able  to  read  so  much  !  And  when 
I  a<5lually  find  it  reported  of  the  elder  Pliny  that  he  was  con- 
tinually reading  or  being  read  to,  at  table,  on  a  journey,  or  in 
his  bath,  the  question  forces  itself  upon  my  mind,  whether  the 
man  was  so  very  lacking  in  thought  of  his  own  that  he  had  to 
have  alien  thought  incessantly  instilled  into  him  ;  as  though  he 
were  a  consumptive  patient  taking  jellies  to  keep  himself  alive. 
And  neither  his  undiscerning  credulity  nor  his  inexpressibly 
repulsive  and  barely  intelligible  style — which  seems  like  of  a 
man  taking  notes,  and  very  economical  of  paper — is  of  a  kind 
to  give  me  a  high  opinion  of  his  power  of  independent 
thought. 

We  have  seen  that  much  reading  and  learning  is  prejudicial 
to  thinking  for  oneself ;  and,  in  the  same  way,  through  much 
writing  and  teaching,  a  man  loses  the  habit  of  being  quite  clear, 
and  therefore  thorough,  in  regard  to  the  things  he  knows  and 
understands  ;  simply  because  he  has  left  himself  no  time  to  ac- 
quire clearness  or  thoroughness.  And  so,  when  clear  knowl- 
edge fails  him  in  his  utterances,  he  is  forced  to  fill  out  the  gaps 
with  words  and  phrases.  It  is  this,  and  not  the  dryness  of  the 
subje6l-matter,  that  makes  most  books  such  tedious  reading. 
There  is  a  saying  that  a  good  cook  can  make  a  palatable  dish 
even  out  of  an  old  shoe  ;  and  a  good  writer  can  make  the  dry- 
est  things  interesting. 

With  by  far  the  largest  number  of  learned  men,  knowledge 
is  a  means,  not  an  end.  That  is  why  they  will  never  achieve 
any  great  work  ;  because,  to  do  that,  he  who  pursues  knowl- 
edge must  pursue  it  as  an  end,  and  treat  everything  else,  even 
existence  itself,  as  only  a  means.  For  everything  which  a  man 
fails  to  pursue  for  its  own  sake  is  but  half-pursued  ;  and  true 
excellence,  no  matter  in  what  sphere,  can  be  attained  only 
where  the  work  has  been  produced  for  its  own  sake  alone,  and 
not  as  a  means  to  further  ends. 

And  so,  too,  no  one  will  ever  succeed  in  doing  anything  real- 
ly great  and  original  in  the  way  of  thought,  who  does  not  seek 
to  acquire  knowledge  for  himself,  and,  making  this  the  imme- 


44  THE    ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

diate  obje6^  of  his  studies,  decline  to  trouble  himself  about  the 
knowledge  of  others.  But  the  average  man  of  learning  studies 
for  the  purpose  of  being  able  to  teach  and  write.  His  head  is 
like  a  stomach  and  intestines  which  let  the  food  pass  through 
them  undigested.  That  is  just  why  his  teaching  and  writing 
is  of  so  little  use.  For  it  is  not  upon  undigested  refuse  that 
people  can  be  nourished,  but  solely  upon  the  milk  which 
secretes  from  the  very  blood  itself 

The  wig  is  the  appropriate  symbol  of  the  man  of  learning, 
pure  and  simple.  It  adorns  the  head  with  a  copious  quantity 
of  false  hair,  in  lack  of  one's  own  :  just  as  erudition  means  en- 
dowing it  with  a  great  mass  of  alien  thought.  This,  to  be 
sure,  does  not  clothe  the  head  so  well  and  naturally,  nor  is  it 
so  generally  useful,  nor  so  suited  for  all  purposes,  nor  so  firm- 
ly rooted ;  nor  when  alien  thought  is  used  up,  can  it  be  im- 
mediately replaced  by  more  from  the  same  source,  as  is  the 
case  with  that  which  springs  from  soil  of  one's  own.  So  we 
find  Sterne,  in  his  Tristram  Shandy,  boldly  asserting  that  an 
ounce  of  a  man' s  own  wit  is  worth  a  ton  of  other  people' s. 

And  in  fa6^  the  most  profound  erudition  is  no  more  akin  to 
genius  than  a  colle6lion  of  dried  plants  is  like  Nature,  with  its 
constant  flow  of  new  life,  ever  fresh,  ever  young,  ever  chang- 
ing. There  are  no  two  things  more  opposed  than  the  childish 
naivety  of  an  ancient  author  and  the  learning  of  his  com- 
mentator. 

Dilettanti,  dilettanti!  This  is  the  slighting  way  in  which 
those  who  pursue  any  branch  of  art  or  learning  for  the  love  and 
enjoyment  of  the  thing, — per  il  loro  diletto,  are  spoken  of  by 
those  who  have  taken  it  up  for  the  sake  of  gain,  attradled  sole- 
ly by  the  prospedl  of  money.  This  contempt  of  theirs  comes 
from  the  base  belief  that  no  man  will  seriously  devote  himself 
to  a  subjedl,  unless  he  is  spurred  on  to  it  by  want,  hunger,  or 
else  some  form  of  greed.  The  public  is  of  the  same  way  of 
thinking  ;  and  hence  its  general  respe6l  for  professionals  and 
its  distrust  of  dilettanti.  But  the  truth  is  that  the  dilettante 
treats   his  subje6l  as  an  end,    whereas  the  professional,  pure 


ON   MEN   OF    LEARNING.  45 

and  simple,  treats  it  merely  as  a  means.  He  alone  will  be 
really  in  earnest  about  a  matter,  who  has  a  dire6l  interest  there- 
in, takes  to  it  because  he  likes  it,  and  pursues  it  con  amore.  It 
is  these,  and  not  hirelings,  that  have  always  done  the  great- 
est work. 

In  the  republic  of  letters  it  is  as  in  other  republics  ;  favor  is 
shown  to  the  plain  man — he  who  goes  his  way  in  silence  and 
does  not  set  up  to  be  cleverer  than  others.  But  the  abnormal 
man  is  looked  upon  as  threatening  danger  ;  people  band  togeth- 
er against  him,  and  have,  oh  !  such  a  majority  on  their  side. 

The  condition  of  this  republic  is  much  like  that  of  a  small 
State  in  America,  where  every  man  is  intent  only  upon  his 
own  advantage,  and  seeks  reputation  and  power  for  himself, 
quite  heedless  of  the  general  weal,  which  then  goes  to  ruin. 
So  it  is  in  the  republic  of  letters  ;  it  is  himself,  and  himself 
alone,  that  a  man  puts  forward,  because  he  wants  to  gain  fame. 
The  only  thing  in  which  all  agree  is  in  trying  to  keep  down  a 
really  eminent  man,  if  he  should  chance  to  show  himself,  as 
one  who  would  be  a  common  peril.  From  this  it  is  easy  to 
see  how  it  fares  with  knowledge  as  a  whole. 

Between  professors  and  independent  men  of  learning  there 
has  always  been  from  of  old  a  certain  antagonism,  which  may 
perhaps  be  Ukened  to  that  existing  been  dogs  and  wolves.  In 
virtue  of  their  position,  professors  enjoy  great  facilities  for  be- 
coming known  to  their  contemporaries.  Contrarily,  independ- 
ent men  of  learning  enjoy,  by  their  position,  great  facilities 
for  becoming  known  to  posterity  ;  to  which  it  is  necessary 
that,  amongst  other  and  much  rarer  gifts,  a  man  should  have  a 
certain  leisure  and  freedom.  As  mankind  takes  a  long  time  in 
finding  out  on  whom  to  bestow  its  attention,  they  may  both 
work  together  side  by  side. 

He  who  holds  a  professorship  may  be  said  to  receive  his 
food  in  the  stall  ;  and  this  is  the  best  way  with  ruminant  ani- 
mals. But  he  who  finds  his  food  for  himself  at  the  hands  of 
Nature  is  better  off  in  the  open  field. 

Of  human  knowledge  as  a  whole  and  in  every  branch  of  it, 
by  far  the  largest  part  exists  nowhere  but  on  paper, — I  mean. 


46  THE   ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

in  books,  that  paper  memory  of  mankind.  Only  a  small  part 
of  it  is  at  any  given  period  really  a6live  in  the  minds  of  particu- 
lar persons.  This  is  due,  in  the  main,  to  the  brevity  and  un- 
certainty of  life  ;  but  it  also  comes  from  the  fa6l  that  men  are 
lazy  and  bent  on  pleasure.  Every  generation  attains,  on  its 
hasty  passage  through  existence,  just  so  much  of  human 
knowledge  as  it  needs,  and  then  soon  disappears.  Most  men 
of  learning  are  very  superficial.  Then  follows  a  new  genera- 
tion, full  of  hope,  but  ignorant,  and  with  everything  to  learn 
from  the  beginning.  It  seizes,  in  its  turn,  just  so  much  as  it 
can  grasp,  or  find  useful  on  its  brief  journey,  and  then  too 
goes  its  way.  How  badly  it  would  fare  with  human  knowledge 
if  it  were  not  for  the  art  of  writing  and  printing  !  This  it  is 
that  makes  libraries  the  only  sure  and  lasting  memory  of  the 
human  race,  for  its  individual  members  have  all  of  them  but  a 
very  limited  and  imperfe<5t  one.  Hence  most  men  of  learning 
are  as  loth  to  have  their  knowledge  examined  as  merchants  to 
lay  bare  their  books. 

Human  knowledge  extends  on  all  sides  farther  than  the  eye 
can  reach  ;  and  of  that  which  would  be  generally  worth  know- 
ing, no  one  man  can  possess  even  the  thousandth  part. 

All  branches  of  learning  have  thus  been  so  much  enlarged 
that  he  who  would  "  do  something"  has  to  pursue  no  more 
than  one  subjed:  and  disregard  all  others.  In  his  own  subje6l 
he  will  then,  it  is  true,  be  superior  to  the  vulgar ;  but  in  all 
else  he  will  belong  to  it.  If  we  add  to  this  that  negle<5l  of  the 
ancient  languages,  which  is  now-a-days  on  the  increase  and  is 
doing  away  with  all  general  education  in  the  humanities — for 
a  mere  smattering  of  Latin  and  Greek  is  of  no  use — we  shall 
come  to  have  men  of  learning  who  outside  their  own  subje6l 
display  an  ignorance  truly  bovine. 

An  exclusive  specialist  of  this  kind  stands  on  a  par  with  a 
workman  in  a  fadlory,  whose  whole  life  is  spent  in  making  one 
particular  kind  of  screw,  or  catch,  or  handle,  for  some  particu- 
lar instrument  or  machine,  in  which,  indeed,  he  attains  incredi- 
ble dexterity.     The  specialist  may  also  be  likened  to  a  man 


ON    MEN    OF    LEARNING.  47 

who  lives  in  his  own  house  and  never  leaves  it.  There  he  is 
perfe6lly  familiar  with  everything,  every  little  step,  corner,  or 
board  ;  much  as  Quasimodo  in  Vi6lor  Hugo's  Notre  Dame 
knows  the  cathedral ;  but  outside  it,  all  is  strange  and  un- 
known. 

For  true  culture  in  the  humanities  it  is  absolutely  necessary 
that  a  man  should  be  many-sided  and  take  large  views  ;  and 
for  a  man  of  learning  in  the  higher  sense  of  the  word,  an  ex- 
tensive acquaintance  with  history  is  needful.  He,  however, 
who  wishes  to  be  a  complete  philosopher,  must  gather  into  his 
head  the  remotest  ends  of  human  knowledge  :  for  where  else 
could  they  ever  come  together  ? 

It  is  precisely  minds  of  the  first  order  that  will  never  be 
specialists.  For  their  very  nature  is  to  make  the  whole  of  ex- 
istence their  problem  ;  and  this  is  a  subje6t  upon  which  they 
will  every  one  of  them  in  some  form  provide  mankind  with  a 
new  revelation.  For  he  alone  can  deserve  the  name  of  genius 
who  takes  the  All,  the  Essential,  the  Universal,  for  the  theme 
of  his  achievements  ;  not  he  who  spends  his  life  in  explaining 
some  special  relation  of  things  one  to  another. 


ON  THINKING  FOR  ONESELF. 

A  LIBRARY  may  be  very  large  ;  but  if  it  is  in  disorder,  it  is 
not  so  useful  as  one  that  is  small  but  well  arranged.  In 
the  same  way,  a  man  may  have  a  great  mass  of  knowledge, 
but  if  he  has  not  worked  it  up  by  thinking  it  over  for  himself, 
it  has  much  less  value  than  a  far  smaller  amount  which  he  has 
thoroughly  pondered.  For  it  is  only  when  a  man  looks  at  his 
knowledge  from  all  sides,  and  combines  the  things  he  knows 
by  comparing  truth  with  truth,  that  he  obtains  a  complete  hold 
over  it  and  gets  it  into  his  power.  A  man  cannot  turn  over 
anything  in  his  mind  unless  he  knows  it ;  he  should,  therefore, 
learn  something  ;  but  it  is  only  when  he  has  turned  it  over 
that  he  can  be  said  to  know  it. 

Reading  and  learning  are  things  that  anyone  can  do  of  his 
own  free  will ;  but  not  so  thinking.  Thinking  must  be  kin- 
dled, like  a  fire  by  a  draught ;  it  must  be  sustained  by  some 
interest  in  the  matter  in  hand.  This  interest  may  be  of  purely 
objedlive  kind,  or  merely  subje<5live.  The  latter  comes  into 
play  only  in  things  that  concern  us  personally.  Objedlive  in- 
terest is  confined  to  heads  that  think  by  nature ;  to  whom 
thinking  is  as  natural  as  breathing ;  and  they  are  very  rare. 
This  is  why  most  men  of  learning  show  so  little  of  it. 

It  is  incredible  what  a  different  effeft  is  produced  upon  the 
mind  by  thinking  for  oneself,  as  compared  with  reading.  It 
carries  on  and  intensifies  that  original  difference  in  the  nature 
of  two  minds  which  leads  the  one  to  think  and  the  other  to 
read.  What  I  mean  is  that  reading  forces  alien  thoughts  up- 
on the  mind — thoughts  which  are  as  foreign  to  the  drift  and 

(48) 


ON   THINKING   FOR    ONESELF.  49 

temper  in  which  it  may  be  for  the  moment,  as  the  seal  is  to  the 
wax  on  which  it  stamps  its  imprint.  The  mind  is  thus  entirely 
under  compulsion  from  without ;  it  is  driven  to  think  this  or 
that,  though  for  the  moment  it  may  not  have  the  slightest  im- 
pulse or  inclination  to  do  so. 

But  when  a  man  thinks  for  himself,  he  follows  the  impulse 
of  his  own  mind,  which  is  determined  for  him  at  the  time, 
either  by  his  environment  or  some  particular  recolle6tion. 
The  visible  world  of  a  man's  surroundings  does  not,  as  read- 
ing does,  impress  a  single  definite  thought  upon  his  mind,  but 
merely  gives  the  matter  and  occasion  which  lead  him  to  think 
what  is  appropriate  to  his  nature  and  present  temper.  So  it 
is,  that  much  reading  deprives  the  mind  of  all  elasticity  ;  it  is 
like  keeping  a  spring  continually  under  pressure.  The  safest 
way  of  having  no  thoughts  of  one's  own  is  to  take  up  a  book 
every  moment  one  has  nothing  else  to  do.  It  is  this  practice 
which  explains  why  erudition  makes  most  men  more  stupid 
and  silly  than  they  are  by  nature,  and  prevents  their  writings 
obtaining  any  measure  of  success.  They  remain,  in  Pope's 
words  : 

Forever  reading y  never  to  be  read!  > 

Men  of  learning  are  those  who  have  done  their  reading  in 
the  pages  of  a  book.  Thinkers  and  men  of  genius  are  those 
who  have  gone  straight  to  the  book  of  Nature  ;  it  is  they  who 
have  enlightened  the  world  and  carried  humanity  further  on 
its  way. 

If  a  man's  thoughts  are  to  have  truth  and  life  in  them,  they 
must,  after  all,  be  his  own  fundamental  thoughts  ;  for  these  are 
the  only  ones  that  he  can  fully  and  wholly  understand.  To 
read  another's  thoughts  is  like  taking  the  leavings  of  a  meal  to 
which  we  have  not  been  invited,  or  putting  on  the  clothes 
which  some  unknown  visitor  has  laid  aside. 

The  thought  we  read  is  related  to  the  thought  which  springs 
up  in  ourselves,  as  the  fossil-impress  of  some  prehistoric  plant 
to  a  plant  as  it  buds  forth  in  spring-time. 

•  Dunctad,  iii,  194. 


50  THE  ART   OF   LITERATURE. 

Reading  is  nothing  more  than  a  substitute  for  thought 
of  one's  own.  It  means  putting  the  mind  into  leading- 
strings.  The  multitude  of  books  serves  only  to  show  how 
many  false  paths  there  are,  and  how  widely  astray  a  man  may 
wander  if  he  follows  any  of  them.  But  he  who  is  guided  by 
his  genius,  he  who  thinks  for  himself,  who  thinks  spontaneous- 
ly and  exactly,  possesses  the  only  compass  by  which  he  can 
steer  aright.  A  man  should  read  only  when  his  own  thoughts 
stagnate  at  their  source,  which  will  happen  often  enough  even 
with  the  best  of  minds.  On  the  other  hand,  to  take  up  a 
book  for  the  purpose  of  scaring  away  one's  own  original 
thoughts  is  sin  against  the  Holy  Spirit.  It  is  like  running 
away  from  Nature  to  look  at  a  museum  of  dried  plants  or  gaze 
at  a  landscape  in  copperplate. 

A  man  may  have  discovered  some  portion  of  truth  or  wis- 
dom, after  spending  a  great  deal  of  time  and  trouble  in  think- 
ing it  over  for  himself  and  adding  thought  to  thought  ;  and  it 
may  sometimes  happen  that  he  could  have  found  it  all  ready 
to  hand  in  a  book  and  spared  himself  the  trouble.  But  even 
so,  it  is  a  hundred  times  more  valuable  if  he  has  acquired  it  by 
thinking  it  out  for  himself  For  it  is  only  when  we  gain  our 
knowledge  in  this  way  that  it  enters  as  an  integral  part,  a  liv- 
ing member,  into  the  whole  system  of  our  thought ;  that  it 
stands  in  complete  and  firm  relation  with  what  we  know  ;  that 
it  is  understood  with  all  that  underlies  it  and  follows  from  it ; 
that  it  wears  the  color,  the  precise  shade,  the  distinguishing 
mark,  of  our  own  way  of  thinking  ;  that  it  comes  exadly  at 
the  right  time,  just  as  we  felt  the  necessity  for  it  ;  that  it  stands 
fast  and  cannot  be  forgotten.  This  is  the  perfect  application, 
nay,  the  interpretation,  of  Goethe's  advice  to  earn  our  inherit- 
ance for  ourselves  so  that  we  may  really  possess  it : — 

If^as  du  ererbt  von  deinen  Vatern  hast,  -, 

Erwtrb  es,  urn  es  zu  besitzen.  ' 

The  man  who  thinks  for  himself,  forms  his  own  opinions  and 
learns  the  authorities  for  them  only  later  on,  when  they  serve 

'  Faust,  I.  329. 


ON   THINKING   FOR  ONESELF.  51 

but  to  Strengthen  his  belief  in  them  and  in  himself.  But  the 
book-philosopher  starts  from  the  authorities.  He  reads  other 
people's  books,  colle6ls  their  opinions,  and  so  forms  a  whole 
for  himself,  which  resembles  an  automaton  made  up  of  any- 
thing but  flesh  and  blood.  Contrarily,  he  who  thinks  for  him- 
self creates  a  work  like  a  living  man  as  made  by  Nature.  For 
the  work  comes  into  being  as  a  man  does  ;  the  thinking  mind 
is  impregnated  from  without,  and  it  then  forms  and  bears 
its  child. 

Truth  that  has  been  merely  learned  is  like  an  artificial  limb, 
a  false  tooth,  a  waxen  nose  ;  at  best,  like  a  nose  made  out  of 
another's  flesh  ;  it  adheres  to  us  only  because  it  is  put  on. 
But  truth  acquired  by  thinking  of  our  own  is  like  a  natural 
limb  ;  it  alone  really  belongs  to  us.     This  is  the  fundamental 
difference  between  the  thinker  and  the  mere  man  of  learning. 
The  intelle6lual  attainments  of  a  man  who  thinks  for  him|elf 
resemble  a  fine  painting,  where  the  light  and  shade  are  correA, 
the  tone  sustained,  the  color  perfectly   harmonized  ;  it  is  true 
to  life.    On  the  other  hand,  the  intelledual  attainments  of  the 
mere  man  of  learning  are  like  a  large  palette,  full  of  all  sorts  of 
colors,  which  at  most  are  systematically  arranged,  but  devoid 
of  harmony,  conne6lion  and  meaning. 

Reading  is  thinking  with  some  one  else's  head  instead  of 
one's  own.  To  think  with  one's  own  head  is  always  to  aim  at 
developing  a  coherent  whole — a  system,  even  though  it  be  not 
a  stri<5lly  complete  one  ;  and  nothing  hinders  this  so  much  as 
too  strong  a  current  of  others'  thoughts,  such  as  comes  of  con- 
tinual reading.  These  thoughts,  springing  every  one  of  them 
from  different  minds,  belonging  to  different  systems,  and  ting- 
ed with  different  colors,  never  of  themselves  flow  together  into 
an  intelle<5lual  whole  ;  they  never  form  a  unity  of  knowledge, 
or  insight,  or  convi6lion  ;  but,  rather,  fill  the  head  with  a 
Babylonian  confusion  of  tongues.  The  mind  that  is  over  load- 
ed with  alien  thought  is  thus  deprived  of  all  clear  insight,  and 
is  well-nigh  disorganized.  This  is  a  state  of  things  observable 
in  many  men  of  learning  ;  and  it  makes  them  inferior  in  sound 


52  THE  ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

sense,  corre6l  judgment  and  pradlical  ta6l,  to  many  illiterate 
persons  who,  after  obtaining  a  little  knowledge  from  without, 
by  means  of  experience,  intercourse  with  others,  and  a  small 
amount  of  reading,  have  always  subordinated  it  to,  and  em- 
bodied it  with,  their  own  thought. 

The  really  scientific  thinker  does  the  same  thing  as  these  illit- 
erate persons,  but  on  a  larger  scale.  Although  he  has  need 
of  much  knowledge,  and  so  must  read  a  great  deal,  his  mind 
is  nevertheless  strong  enough  to  master  it  all,  to  assimilate 
and  incorporate  it  with  the  system  of  his  thoughts,  and  so  to 
make  it  fit  in  with  the  organic  unity  of  his  insight,  which, 
though  vast,  is  always  growing.  And  in  the  process,  his  own 
thought,  like  the  bass  in  an  organ,  always  dominates  every- 
thing, and  is  never  drowned  by  other  tones,  as  happens  with 
minds  which  are  full  of  mere  antiquarian  lore  ;  where  shreds 
of  music,  as  it  were,  in  every  key,  mingle  confusedly,  and  no 
fundamental  note  is  heard  at  all. 

Those  who  have  spent  their  lives  in  reading,  and  taken  their 
wisdom  from  books,  are  like  people  who  have  obtained  precise 
information  about  a  country  from  the  descriptions  of  many 
travellers.  Such  people  can  tell  a  great  deal  about  it ;  but, 
after  all,  they  have  no  connedled,  clear,  and  profound  knowl- 
edge of  its  real  condition.  But  those  who  have  spent  their 
lives  in  thinking,  resemble  the  travellers  themselves  ;  they 
alone  really  know  what  they  are  talking  about ;  they  are  ac- 
quainted with  the  adlual  state  of  affairs,  and  are  quite  at  home 
in  the  subjedl. 

The  thinker  stands  in  the  same  relation  to  the  ordinary 
book-philosopher  as  an  eye-witness  does  to  the  historian  ;  he 
speaks  from  dire6l  knowledge  of  his  own.  That  is  why  all 
those  who  think  for  themselves  come,  at  bottom,  to  much  the 
same  conclusion.  The  differences  they  present  are  due  to 
their  different  points  of  view  ;  and  when  these  do  not  affedl 
the  matter,  they  all  speak  alike.  They  merely  express  the  re- 
sult of  their  own  objedlive  perception  of  things.  There  are 
many  passages  in  my  works  which  I  have  given  to  the  public 


ON    THINKING    FOR   ONESELF.  53 

only  after  some  hesitation,  because  of  their  paradoxical  nature  ; 
and  afterwards  I  have  experienced  a  pleasant  surprise  in  find- 
ing the  same  opinion  recorded  in  the  works  of  great  men  who 
lived  long  ago. 

The  book -philosopher  merely  reports  what  one  person  has 
said  and  another  meant,  or  the  objedlions  raised  by  a  third, 
and  so  on.  He  compares  different  opinions,  ponders,  criti- 
cises, and  tries  to  get  at  the  truth  of  the  matter  ;  herein  on  a 
par  with  the  critical  historian.  For  instance,  he  will  set  out  to 
inquire  whether  Leibnitz  was  not  for  some  time  a  follower  of 
Spinoza,  and  questions  of  a  like  nature.  The  curious  student 
of  such  matters  may  find  conspicuous  examples  of  what  I  mean 
in  Herbart's  Analytical  Elucidation  of  Morality  and  Natural 
Right,  and  in  the  same  author's  Letters  on  Freedom.  Surprise 
may  be  felt  that  a  man  of  the  kind  should  put  himself  to  so 
much  trouble  ;  for,  on  the  face  of  it,  if  he  would  only  examine 
the  matter  for  himself,  he  would  speedily  attain  his  objedl  by 
the  exercise  of  a  little  thought.  But  there  is  a  small  difficulty 
in  the  way.  It  does  not  depend  upon  his  own  will.  A  man 
can  always  sit  down  and  read,  but  not — think.  It  is  with 
thoughts  as  with  men  ;  they  cannot  always  be  summoned  at 
pleasure  ;  we  must  wait  for  them  to  come.  Thought  about  a 
subject  must  appear  of  itself,  by  a  happy  and  harmonious  com- 
bination of  external  stimulus  with  mental  temper  and  attention  ; 
and  it  is  just  that  which  never  seems  to  come  to  these  people. 

This  truth  may  be  illustrated  by  what  happens  in  the  case  of 
matters  affe6iing  our  own  personal  interest.  When  it  is  neces- 
sary to  come  to  some  resolution  in  a  matter  of  that  kind,  we 
cannot  well  sit  down  at  any  given  moment  and  think  over  the 
merits  of  the  case  and  make  up  our  mind;  for,  if  we  try  to  do 
so,  we  often  find  ourselves  unable,  at  that  particular  moment, 
to  keep  our  mind  fixed  upon  the  subje(5l ;  it  wanders  off  tcj 
other  things.  Aversion  to  the  matter  in  question  is  sometimes 
to  blame  for  this.  In  such  a  case  we  should  not  use  force,  but 
wait  for  the  proper  frame  of  mind  to  come  of  itself.  It  often 
comes  unexpectedly  and  returns  again  and  again  ;   and  the 


54  THE   ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

variety  of  temper  in  which  we  approach  it  at  different  moments 
puts  the  matter  always  in  a  fresh  light.  It  is  this  long  process 
which  is  understood  by  the  term  a  ripe  resolution.  For  the 
work  of  coming  to  a  resolution  must  be  distributed  ;  and  in 
the  process  much  that  is  overlooked  at  one  moment  occurs  to 
us  at  another  ;  and  the  repugnance  vanishes  when  we  find,  as 
we  usually  do,  on  a  closer  inspection,  that  things  are  not  so 
bad  as  they  seemed. 

This  rule  applies  to  the  life  of  the  intelleft  as  well  as  to 
matters  of  pra6lice.  A  man  must  wait  for  the  right  moment. 
Not  even  the  greatest  mind  is  capable  of  thinking  for  itself  at 
all  times.  Hence  a  great  mind  does  well  to  spend  its  leisure 
in  reading,  which,  as  I  have  said,  is  a  substitute  for  thought : 
it  brings  stuff  to  the  mind  by  letting  another  person  do  the 
thinking  ;  although  that  is  always  done  in  a  manner  not  our 
own.  Therefore,  a  man  should  not  read  too  much,  in  order 
that  his  mind  may  not  become  accustomed  to  the  substitute 
and  thereby  forget  the  reality  ;  that  it  may  not  form  the  habit 
of  walking  in  well-worn  paths  ;  nor  by  following  an  alien 
course  of  thought  grow  a  stranger  to  its  own.  Least  of  all 
should  a  man  quite  withdraw  his  gaze  from  the  real  world  for 
the  mere  sake  of  reading  ;  as  the  impulse  and  the  temper  which 
prompt  to  thought  of  one's  own  come  far  oftener  from  the 
world  of  reality  than  from  the  world  of  books.  The  real  life 
that  a  man  sees  before  him  is  the  natural  subjefl  of  thought ; 
and  in  its  strength  as  the  primary  element  of  existence,  it  can 
more  easily  than  anything  else  rouse  and  influence  the  think- 
ing mind. 

After  these  considerations,  it  will  not  be  matter  for  surprise 
that  a  man  who  thinks  for  himself  can  easily  be  distinguished 
from  the  book-philosopher  by  the  very  way  in  which  he  talks, 
by  his  marked  earnestness,  and  the  originality,  diredness,  and 
personal  convidlion  that  stamp  all  his  thoughts  and  expres- 
sions. The  book-philosopher,  on  the  other  hand,  lets  it  be 
seen  that  everything  he  has  is  second-hand  ;  that  his  ideas  are 
like  the  lumber  and  trash  of  an  old  furniture-shop,  colle6led 


ON   THINKING   FOR   ONESELF.  55 

together  from  all  quarters.  Mentally,  he  is  dull  and  pointless 
— a.  copy  of  a  copy.  His  literary  style  is  made  up  of  conven- 
tional, nay,  vulgar  phrases,  and  terms  that  happen  to  be  cur- 
rent ;  in  this  respeft  much  like  a  small  State  where  all  the 
money  that  circulates  is  foreign,  because  it  has  no  coinage  of 
its  own. 

Mere  experience  can  as  little  as  reading  supply  the  place  of 
thought.  It  stands  to  thinking  in  the  same  relation  in  which 
eating  stands  to  digestion  and  assimilation.  When  experience 
boasts  that  to  its  discoveries  alone  is  due  the  advancement  of 
the  human  race,  it  is  as  though  the  mouth  were  to  claim  the 
whole  credit  of  maintaining  the  body  in  health. 

The  works  of  all  truly  capable  minds  are  distinguished  by  a 
chara(5ler  of  decision  and  definiteness,  which  means  that  they 
are  clear  and  free  from  obscurity.  A  truly  capable  mind  al- 
ways knows  definitely  and  clearly  what  it  is  that  it  wants  to 
express,  whether  its  medium  is  prose,  verse,  or  music.  Other 
minds  are  not  decisive  and  not  definite  ;  and  by  this  they  may 
be  known  for  what  they  are. 

The  charadleristic  sign  of  a  mind  of  the  highest  order  is  that 
it  always  judges  at  first  hand.  Everything  it  advances  is  the 
result  of  thinking  for  itself ;  and  this  is  everywhere  evident  by 
the  way  in  which  it  gives  its  thoughts  utterance.  Such  a  mind 
is  like  a  Prince.  In  the  realm  of  intelledl  its  authority  is  im- 
perial, whereas  the  authority  of  minds  of  a  lower  order  is  dele- 
gated only  ;  as  may  be  seen  in  their  style,  which  has  no 
independent  stamp  of  its  own. 

Every  one  who  really  thinks  for  himself  is  so  far  like  a  mon- 
arch. His  position  is  undelegated  and  supreme.  His  judg- 
ments, like  royal  decrees,  spring  from  his  own  sovereign 
power  and  proceed  dire<5Hy  from  himself.  He  acknowledges 
authority  as  little  as  a  monarch  admits  a  command  ;  he  sub- 
scribes to  nothing  but  what  he  has  himself  authorized.  The 
multitude  of  common  minds,  laboring  under  all  sorts  of  cur- 
rent opinions,  authorities,  prejudices,  is  like  the  people,  which 
silendy  obeys  the  law  and  accepts  orders  from  above. 


56  THE   ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

Those  who  are  so  zealous  and  eager  to  settle  debated  ques- 
tions by  citing  authorities,  are  really  glad  when  they  are  able 
to  put  the  understanding  and  the  insight  of  others  into  the 
field  in  place  of  their  own,  which  are  wanting.  Their  number 
is  legion.  For,  as  Seneca  says,  there  is  no  man  but  prefers 
belief  to  the  exercise  of  judgment — unusquisque  mavult  credere 
quam  judicare.  In  their  controversies  such  people  make  a 
promiscuous  use  of  the  weapon  of  authority,  and  strike  out  at 
one  another  with  it.  If  any  one  chances  to  become  involved 
in  such  a  contest,  he  will  do  well  not  to  try  reason  and  argu- 
ment as  a  mode  of  defence  ;  for  against  a  weapon  of  that  kind 
these  people  are  like  Siegfrieds,  with  a  skin  of  horn,  and  dip- 
ped in  the  flood  of  incapacity  for  thinking  and  judging.  They 
will  meet  his  attack  by  bringing  up  their  authorities  as  a  way 
of  abashing  him — argtimenhim  ad  verecundiam^  and  then  cry 
out  that  they  have  won  the  battle. 

In  the  real  world,  be  it  never  so  fair,  favorable  and  pleasant, 
we  always  live  subje6l  to  the  law  of  gravity  which  we  have  to 
be  constantly  overcoming.  But  in  the  world  of  intelle6l  we  are 
disembodied  spirits,  held  in  bondage  to  no  such  law,  and  free 
from  penury  and  distress.  Th  js  it  is  that  there  exists  no 
happiness  on  earth  like  that  which,  at  the  auspicious  moment, 
a  fine  and  fruitful  mind  finds  in  itself.  ' 

The  presence  of  a  thought  is  like  the  presence  of  a  woman 
we  love.  We  fancy  we  shall  never  forget  the  thought  nor  be- 
come indifferent  to  the  dear  one.  But  out  of  sight,  out  of 
mind  !  The  finest  thought  runs  the  risk  of  being  irrevocably 
forgotten  if  we  do  not  write  it  down,  and  the  darling  of  being 
deserted  if  we  do  not  marry  her. 

There  are  plenty  of  thoughts  which  are  valuable  to  the  man 
who  thinks  them  ;  but  only  few  of  them  which  have  enough 
strength  to  produce  repercussive  or  refledl  a6lion — I  mean,  to 
win  the  reader's  sympathy  after  they  have  been  put  on  paper. 

But  still  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  a  true  value  attaches 
only  to  what  a  man  has  thought  in  the  first  instance  for  his 
own  case.     Thinkers  may  be  classed  according  as  they  think 


ON  THINKING  FOR  ONESELF.  57 

chiefly  for  their  own  case  or  for  that  of  others.  The  former 
are  the  genuine  independent  thinkers  ;  they  really  think  and 
are  really  independent ;  they  are  the  true  philosophers ;  they 
alone  are  in  earnest.  The  pleasure  and  the  happiness  of  their 
existence  consists  in  thinking.  The  others  are  the  sophists  ; 
they  want  to  seem  that  which  they  are  not,  and  seek  their 
happiness  in  what  they  hope  to  get  from  the  world.  They  are 
in  earnest  about  nothing  else.  To  which  of  these  two  classes 
a  man  belongs  may  be  seen  by  his  whole  style  and  manner. 
Lichtenberg  is  an  example  for  the  former  class  ;  Herder,  there 
can  be  no  doubt,  belongs  to  the  second. 

When  one  considers  how  vast  and  how  close  to  us  is  the 
problem  of  existence — this  equivocal,  tortured,  fleeting,  dream- 
like existence  of  ours — so  vast  and  so  close  that  a  man  no 
sooner  discovers  it  than  it  overshadows  and  obscures  all  other 
problems  and  aims ;  and  when  one  sees  how  all  men,  with  few 
and  rare  exceptions,  have  no  clear  consciousness  of  the  prob- 
lem, nay,  seem  to  be  quite  unaware  of  its  presence,  but  busy 
themselves  with  everything  rather  than  with  this,  and  live  on, 
taking  no  thought  but  for  the   passing  day  and   the  hardly 
longer  span  of  their  own  personal  future,  either  expressly  dis- 
carding the  problem  or  else  over-ready  to  come  to  terms  with 
it  by  adopting  some  system  of  popular  metaphysics  and  letting 
it  satisfy  them  ;  when,  I  say,  one  takes  all   this  to  heart,  one 
may  come  to  the  opinion  that  man  may  be  said  to  be  a  think- 
ing being  only  in  a  very  remote  sense,  and  henceforth  feel  no 
special  surprise  at  any  trait  of  human  thoughtlessness  or  folly  ; 
but  know,  rather,  that  the  normd  man's  intelledual  range  of 
vision  does  indeed  extend  beyond  that  of  the  brute,   whose 
whole  existence  is,  as  it  were,  a  continual  present,  with  no  con- 
sciousness of  the  past  or  the  future,  but  not  such  an  immeasur- 
able distance  as  is  generally  supposed. 

This  is,  in  fa6l,  corroborated  by  the  way  in  which  most  men 
converse  ;  where  their  thoughts  are  found  to  be  chopped  up 
fine,  like  chaff",  so  that  for  them  to  spin  out  a  discourse  of  any 
length  is  impossible. 


58  THE   ART    OF    LITERATURE. 

If  this  world  were  peopled  by  really  thinking  beings,  it 
could  not  be  that  noise  of  every  kind  would  be  allowed  such 
generous  limits,  as  is  the  case  with  the  most  horrible  and  at 
the  same  time  aimless  form  of  it.*  If  Nature  had  meant  man 
to  think,  she  would  not  have  given  him  ears  ;  or,  at  any  rate, 
she  would  have  furnished  them  with  air-tight  flaps,  such  as  are 
the  enviable  possession  of  the  bat.  But,  in  truth,  man  is  a 
poor  animal  like  the  rest,  and  his  powers  are  meant  only  to 
maintain  him  in  the  struggle  for  existence  ;  so  he  must  need 
keep  his  ears  always  open,  to  announce  of  themselves,  by 
night  as  by  day,  the  approach  of  the  pursuer. 

'  Translator' s  Note. — Schopenhauer  refers  to  the  cracking  of  whips. 
See  the  E^say  On  Noise  in  Studies  in  Pessimism, 


ON  SOME  FORMS  OF  LITERATURE. 

IN  the  DRAMA,  which  is  the  most  perfect  reflection  of  human 
existence,  there  are  three  stages  in  the  presentation  of  the 
subject,  with  a  corresponding  variety  in  the  design  and  scope 
of  the  piece. 

At  the  first,  which  is  also  the  most  common,  stage,  the 
drama  is  never  anything  more  than  merely  interesting.  The 
persons  gain  our  attention  by  following  their  own  aims,  which 
resemble  ours  ;  the  a6tion  advances  by  means  of  intrigue  and 
the  play  of  chara<5ler  and  incident ;  while  wit  and  raillery 
season  the  whole. 

At  the  second  stage,  the  drama  becomes  j-^w/zw^n/tf/.  Sym- 
pathy is  roused  with  the  hero  and,  indiredtiy,  with  ourselves. 
The  action  takes  a  pathetic  turn  ;  but  the  end  is  peaceful  and 
satisfa6lory. 

The  climax  is  reached  with  the  third  stage,  which  is  the 
most  difficult.  There  the  drama  aims  at  being  tragic.  We 
are  brought  face  to  face  with  great  suffering  and  the  storm  and 
stress  of  existence  ;  and  the  outcome  of  it  is  to  show  the  vanity 
of  all  human  effort.  Deeply  moved,  we  are  either  dire6lly 
prompted  to  disengage  our  will  from  the  struggle  of  life,  or 
else  a  chord  is  struck  in  us  which  echoes  a  similar  feeling. 

The  beginning,  it  is  said,  is  always  difficult.  In  the  drama 
it  is  just  the  contrary  ;  for  there  the  difficulty  always  lies  in  the 
end.  This  is  proved  by  countless  plays  which  promise  very 
well  for  the  first  a<5l  or  two,  and  then  become  muddled,  stick 
or  falter — notoriously  so  in  the  fourth  a6l — and  finally  con- 
clude in  a  way  that  is  either  forced  or  unsatisfactory  or  else 

(59> 


6o  THE   ART   OF   LITERATURE. 

long  foreseen  by  every  one.  Sometimes,  too,  the  end  is  posi- 
tively revolting,  as  in  Lessing's  Emilia  Galotti^  which  sends 
the  sped^ators  home  in  a  temper. 

This  difficulty  in  regard  to  the  end  of  a  play  arises  partly  be- 
cause it  is  everywhere  easier  to  get  things  into  a  tangle  than 
to  get  them  out  again  ;  partly  also  because  at  the  beginning 
we  give  the  author  carte  blanche  to  do  as  he  likes,  but,  at  the 
end,  make  certain  definite  demands  upon  him.  Thus  we  ask 
for  a  conclusion  that  shall  be  either  quite  happy  or  else  quite 
tragic  ;  whereas  human  affairs  do  not  easily  take  so  decided  a 
turn  ;  and  then  we  expe6l  that  it  shall  be  natural,  fit  and  proper, 
unlabored,  and  at  the  same  time  foreseen  by  no  one. 

These  remarks  are  also  applicable  to  an  epic  and  to  a  novel ; 
but  the  more  compa6l  nature  of  the  drama  makes  the  difficulty 
plainer  by  increasing  it. 

E  nihilo  nihil  fit.  That  nothing  can  come  from  nothing  is 
a  maxim  true  in  fine  art  as  elsewhere.  In  composing  an  his- 
torical pi6lure,  a  good  artist  will  use  living  men  as  a  model, 
and  take  the  ground-work  of  the  faces  from  life  ;  and  then 
proceed  to  idealize  them  in  point  of  beauty  or  expression.  A 
similar  method,  I  fancy,  is  adopted  by  good  novelists.  In  draw- 
ing a  chara6ter  they  take  the  general  outline  of  it  from  some 
real  person  of  their  acquaintance,  and  then  idealize  and  com- 
plete it  to  suit  their  purpose. 

•  A  NOVEL  will  be  of  a  high  and  noble  order,  the  more  it 
represents  of  inner,  and  the  less  it  represents  of  outer,  life  ;  and 
the  ratio  between  the  two  will  supply  a  means  of  judging  any 
novel,  of  whatever  kind,  from  Tristram  Shandy  down  to  the 
crudest  and  most  sensational  tale  of  knight  or  robber.  Tris- 
tram Shandy  has,  indeed,  as  good  as  no  a<5tion  at  all  ;  and 
there  is  not  much  in  La  Nouvelle  Heloise  and  Wilhelm  Meister. 
Even  Don  Quixote  has  relatively  little  ;  and  what  there  is,  very 
unimportant,  and  introduced  merely  for  the  sake  of  fun.  And 
these  four  are  the  best  of  all  existing  novels. 

Consider,  further,  the  wonderful  romances  of  jean  Paul,  and 


ON  SOME   FORMS   OF   LITERATURE.  6l 

how  much  inner  life  is  shown  on  the  narrowest  basis  of  a<5lual 
event.  Even  in  Walter  Scott's  novels  there  is  a  great  pre- 
ponderance of  inner  over  outer  life,  and  incident  is  never 
brought  in  except  for  the  purpose  of  giving  play  to  thought 
and  emotion  ;  whereas,  in  bad  novels,  incident  is  there  on  its 
own  account.  Skill  consists  in  setting  the  inner  life  in  motion 
with  the  smallest  possible  array  of  circumstance  ;  for  it  is  this 
inner  life  that  really  excites  our  interest. 

The  business  of  the  novelist  is  not  to  relate  great  events,  but 
to  make  small  ones  interesting. 

HiSTpRY,  which  I  like  to  think  of  as  the  contrary  of  poetry 
{laropovfievov — nenoirifievov),  is  for  time  what  geography  is  for 
space  ;  and  it  is  no  more  to  be  called  a  science,  in  any  strict 
sense  of  the  word,  than  is  geography,  because  it  does  not  deal 
with  universal  truths,  but  only  with  particular  details.*  Histo- 
ry has  always  been  the  favorite  study  of  those  who  wish  to 
learn  something,  without  having  to  face  the  effort  demanded 
by  any  branch  of  real  knowledge,  which  taxes  the  intelligence. 
In  our  time  history  is  a  favorite  pursuit ;  as  witness  the  numer- 
ous books  upon  the  subject  which  appear  every  year. 

If  the  reader  cannot  help  thinking,  with  me,  that  history  is 
merely  the  constant  recurrence  of  similar  things,  just  as  in  a 
kaleidoscope  the  same  bits  of  glass  are  presented,  but  in  differ- 
ent combinations,  he  will  not  be  able  to  share  all  this  lively 
interest ;  nor,  however,  will  he  censure  it.  But  there  is  a 
ridiculous  and  absurd  claim,  made  by  many  people,  to  regard 
history  as  a  part  of  philosophy,  nay,  as  philosophy  itself; 
they  imagine  that  history  can  take  its  place. 

The  preference  shown  for  history  by  the  greater  public  in  all 
ages  may  be  illustrated  by  the  kind  of  conversation  which  is  so 
much  in  vogue  everywhere  in  society.  It  generally  consists 
in  one  person  relating  something,  and  then  another  person  re- 
lating something  else  ;  so  that  in  this  way  everyone  is  sure  of 

'  Translator's  Note. — This  line  of  argument  is  not  likely  to  be  popu- 
larnow-a-days ;  but  if  the  reader  is  interested  by  it,  he  will  find  it 
more  fully  stated  in  Die  IVe/ta/s  Wi//e  mid  Vorsieliung,  Vol.  II.,  c.  38. 


62  THE   ART  OF   LITERATURE. 

receiving  attention.  Both  here  and  in  the  case  of  history  it  is 
plain  that  the  mind  is  occupied  with  particular  details.  But  as 
in  science,  so  also  in  every  worthy  conversation,  the  mind  rises 
to  the  consideration  of  some  general  truth. 

This  obje<5tion  does  not,  however,  deprive  history  of  its 
value.  Human  life  is  short  and  fleeting,  and  many  millions  of 
individuals  share  in  it,  who  are  swallowed  by  that  monster  of 
oblivion  which  is  waiting  for  them  with  ever-open  jaws.  It  is 
thus  a  very  thankworthy  task  to  try  to  rescue  something — the 
memory  of  interesting  and  important  events,  or  the  leading 
features  and  personages  of  some  epoch — from  the  general  ship- 
wreck of  the  world. 

,  From  another  point  of  view,  we  might  look  upon  histoiy  as 
the  sequel  to  zoology  ;  for  while  with  all  other  animals  it  is 
enough  to  observe  the  species,  with  man  individuals,  and 
therefore  individual  events  have  to  be  studied  ;  because  every 
man  possesses  a  charader  as  an  individual.  And  since  individ- 
uals and  events  are  without  number  or  end,  an  essential  imper- 
fection attaches  to  history.  In  the  study  of  it,  all  that  a  man 
learns  never  contributes  to  lessen  that  which  he  has  still  to 
learn.  With  any  real  science,  a  perfe6lion  of  knowledge  is,  at 
any  rate,  conceivable. 

When  we  gain  access  to  the  histories  of  China  and  of  India, 
the  endlessness  of  the  subje<5l-matter  will  reveal  to  us  the  de- 
fe6ts  in  the  study,  and  force  our  historians  to  see  that  the 
objedt  of  science  Is  to  recognize  the  many  in  the  one,  to  per- 
ceive the  rules  in  any  given  example,  and  to  apply  to  the  life 
of  nations  a  knowledge  of  mankind  ;  not  to  go  on  counting  up 
fadts  ad  iytfinitutn. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  history  ;  the  history  of  politics  and 
the  history  of  literature  and  art.  The  one  is  the  history  of  the 
will ;  the  other,  that  of  the  intelle6t. '  The  first  is  a  tale  of  woe, 
even  of  terror  :  it  is  a  record  of  agony,  struggle,  fraud,  and 
horrible  murder  en  masse.  The  second  is  everywhere  pleasing 
and  serene,  like  the  intelle6l  when  left  to  itself,  even  though  its 
path  be  one  of  error.     Its  chief  branch  is  the  history  of  philoso- 


ON  SOME   FORMS  OF  LITERATURE.  63 

phy.  This  is,  in  fa6t,  its  fundamental  bass,  and  the  notes  of  it 
are  heard  even  in  the  other  kind  of  history.  These  deep  tones 
guide  the  formation  of  opinion,  and  opinion  rules  the  world. 
Hence  philosophy,  rightly  understood,  is  a  material  force  oi 
the  most  powerful  kind,  though  very  slow  in  its  working.  The 
philosophy  of  a  period  is  thus  the  fundamental  bass  of  its 
history. 

The  NEWSPAPER  is  the  second-hand  in  the  clock  of  history  ; 
and  it  is  not  only  made  of  baser  metal  than  those  which  point 
to  the  minute  and  the  hour,  but  it  seldom  goes  right. 

The  so-called  leading  article  is  the  chorus  to  the  drama  of 
passing  events. 

Exaggeration  of  every  kind  is  as  essential  to  journalism  as  it 
is  to  the  dramatic  art ;  for  the  object  of  journalism  is  to  make 
events  go  as  far  as  possible.  Thus  it  is  that  all  journalists  are, 
in  the  very  nature  of  their  calling,  alarmists  ;  and  this  is  their 
way  of  giving  interest  to  what  they  write.  Herein  they  are 
like  little  dogs ;  if  anything  stirs,  they  immediately  set  up  a 
shrill  bark. 

Therefore,  let  us  carefully  regulate  the  attention  to  be  paid 
to  this  trumpet  of  danger,  so  that  it  may  not  disturb  our 
digestion.  Let  us  recognize  that  a  newspaper  is  at  best  but  a 
magnifying-glass,  and  very  often  merely  a  shadow  on  the  wall. 

The  pen  is  to  thought  what  the  stick  is  to  walking  ;  but  you 
walk  most  easily  when  you  have  no  stick,  and  you  think  with 
the  greatest  perfe(5lion  when  you  have  no  pen  in  your  hand. 
It  is  only  when  a  man  begins  to  be  old  that  he  likes  to  use  a 
stick  and  is  glad  to  take  up  his  pen. 

When  an  hypothesis  has  once  come  to  birth  in  the  mind,  or 
gained  a  footing  there,  it  leads  a  life  so  far  comparable  with 
the  life  of  an  organism,  as  that  it  assimilates  matter  from  the 
outer  world  only  when  it  is  like  in  kind  with  it  and  beneficial ; 
and  when,  contrarily,  such  matter  is  not  like  in  kind  but  hurt- 
ful, the  hypothesis,  equally  with  the  organism,  throws  it  off, 
or,  if  forced  to  take  it,  gets  rid  of  it  again  entire. 


64  THE   ART    OF    LITERATURE. 

To  gain  immortality  an  author  must  possess  so  many  ex- 
cellences that,  while  it  will  not  be  easy  to  find  anyone  to 
understand  and  appreciate  them  all,  there  will  be  men  in  every 
age  who  are  able  to  recognize  and  value  some  of  them.  In 
this  way  the  credit  of  his  book  will  be  maintained  throughout 
the  long  course  of  centuries,  in  spite  of  the  fa6l  that  human 
interests  are  always  changing. 

An  author  like  this,  who  has  a  claim  to  the  continuance  of 
his  life  even  with  posterity,  can  only  be  a  man  who,  over  the 
wide  earth,  will  seek  his  like  in  vain,  and  offer  a  palpable  con- 
trast with  everyone  else  in  virtue  of  his  unmistakable  distinc- 
tion. Nay,  more  ;  were  he,  like  the  wandering  Jew,  to  live 
through  several  generations,  he  would  still  remain  in  the  same 
superior  position.  If  this  were  not  so,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
see  why  his  thoughts  should  not  perish  like  those  of  other  men. 

Metaphors  and  similes  are  of  great  value,  in  so  far  as  they 
explain  an  unknown  relation  by  a  known  one.  Even  the  more 
detailed  simile  which  grows  into  a  parable  or  an  allegory,  is 
nothing  more  than  the  exhibition  of  some  relation  in  its  sim- 
plest, most  visible  and  palpable  form.  The  growth  of  ideas 
rests,  at  bottom,  upon  similes ;  because  ideas  arise  by  a  pro- 
cess of  combining  the  similarities  and  negle6ling  the  differences 
between  things.  Further,  intelligence,  in  the  strift  sense  of 
the  word,  ultimately  consists  in  a  seizing  of  relations  ;  and  a 
clear  and  pure  grasp  of  relations  is  all  the  more  often  attained 
when  the  comparison  is  made  between  cases  that  lie  wide  apart 
from  one  another,  and  between  thmgs  of  quite  different  nature. 
As  long  as  a  relation  is  known  to  me  as  existing  only  in  a 
single  case,  I  have  but  ^n  individual'idea.  o{ \X. — in  other  words, 
only  an  intuitive  knowledge  of  it ;  but  as  soon  as  I  see  the  same 
relation  in  two  different  cases,  I  have  a  general  idea  of  its 
whole  nature,  and  this  is  a  deeper  and  more  perfe6l  knowledge. 

Since,  then,  similes  and  metaphors  are  such  a  powerful 
engine  of  knowledge,  it  is  a  sign  of  great  intelligence  in  a 
writer  if  his  similes  are  unusual  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  the 
point.     Aristotle  also  observes  that  by  far  the  most  important 


ON  SOME  FORMS  OF  LITERATURE.  65 

thing  to  a  writer  is  to  have  this  power  of  metaphor  ;  for  it  is  a 
gift  which  cannot  be  acquired,  and  it  is  a  mark  of  genius. 

As  regards  reading,  to  require  that  a  man  shall  retain  every- 
thing he  has  ever  read,  is  like  asking  him  to  carry 'about  with 
him  all  he  has  ever  eaten.  The  one  kind  of  food  has  given  him 
bodily,  and  the  other  mental,  nourishment ;  and  it  is  through 
these  two  means  that  he  has  grown  to  be  what  he  is.  The 
body  assimilates  only  that  which  is  like  it ;  and  so  a  man  re- 
tains in  his  mind  only  that  which  interests  him,  in  other  words, 
that  which  suits  his  system  of  thought  or  his  purposes  in  life. 

If  a  man  wants  to  read  good  books,  he  must  make  a  point  of 
avoiding  bad  ones  ;  for  life  is  short,  and  time  and  energy  limited. 

Repetiiio  est  mater  studiorum.  Any  book  that  is  at  all  im- 
portant ought  to  be  at  once  read  through  twice  ;  partly  be- 
cause, on  a  second  reading,  the  conne6lion  of  the  different 
portions  of  the  t>ook  will  be  better  understood,  and  the  begin- 
ning comprehended  only  when  the  end  is  known  ;  and  partly 
because  we  are  not  in  the  same  temper  and  disposition  on  both 
readings.  On  the  second  perusal  we  get  a  new  view  of  every 
passage  and  a  different  impression  of  the  whole  book,  which 
then  appears  in  another  light. 

A  man's  works  are  the  quintessence  of  his  mind,  and  even 
though  he  may  possess  very  great  capacity,  they  will  always  . 
be  incomparably  more  valuable  than  his  conversation.  Nay, 
in  all  essential  matters  his  wor'cs  will  not  only  make  up  for 
the  lack  of  personal  intercourse  with  him,  but  they  will  far 
surpass  it  in  solid  advantages.  The  writings  even  of  a  man 
of  moderate  genius  may  be  edifying,  worth  reading  and  in- 
stru6live,  because  they  are  his  quintessence — the  result  and 
fruit  of  all  his  thought  and  study ;  whilst  conversation  with 
him  may  be  unsatisfactory. 

So  it  is  that  we  can  read  books  by  men  in  whose  company 
we  find  nothing  to  please,  and  that  a  high  degree  of  culture 
leads  us  to  seek  entertainment  almost  wholly  from  books  and 
not  from  men. 


ON  CRITICISM. 

THE  following  brief  remarks  on  the  critical  faculty  are  chiefly 
intended  to  show  that,  for  the  most  part,  there  is  no 
such  thing.  It  is  a  rata  avis ;  almost  as  rare,  indeed,  as  the 
phoenix,  which  appears  only  once  in  five  hundred  years. 

When  we  speak  of  taste — an  expression  not  chosen  with 
any  regard  for  it — we  mean  the  discovery,  or,  it  may  be  only 
the  recognition,  of  what  is  right  (esthetically ,  apart  from  the 
guidance  of  any  rule  ;  and  this,  either  because  no  rule  has  as 
yet  been  extended  to  the  matter  in  question,  or  else  because, 
if  existing,  it  is  unknown  to  the  artist,  or  the  critic,  as  the  case 
may  be.  Instead  oi  taste,  we  might  use  the  expression  cesthetic 
sense,  if  this  were  not  tautological. 

The  perceptive  critical  taste  is,  so  to  speak,  the  female  ana- 
logue to  the  male  quality  of  produ6live  talent  or  genius.  Not 
capable  of  begetting  great  work  itself,  it  consists  in  a  capacity 
of  reception,  that  is  to  say,  of  recognizing  as  such  what  is  right, 
fit,  beautiful,  or  the  reverse  ;  in  other  words,  of  discriminating 
the  good  from  the  bad,  of  discovering  and  appreciating  the 
one  and  condemning  the  other. 

In  appreciating  a  genius,  criticism  should  not  deal  with  the 
errors  in  his  produ6lions  or  with  the  poorer  of  his  works,  and 
then  proceed  to  rate  him  low  ;  it  should  attend  only  to  the 
qualities  in  which  he  most  excels.  For  in  the  sphere  of  intel- 
le6t,  as  in  other  spheres,  weakness  and  perversity  cleave  so 
firmly  to  human  nature  that  even  the  most  brilliant  mind  is  not 
wholly  and  at  all  times  free  from  them.  Hence  the  great  errors 
to  be  found  even  in  the  works  of  the  greatest  men ;  or  as 
Horace  puts  it,  quandoque  bonus  dormitat  Homerus.         (66) 


ON    CRITICISM.  67 

That  which  distinguishes  genius,  and  should  be  the  standard 
for  judging  it,  is  the  height  to  which  it  is  able  to  soar  when  it 
is  in  the  proper  mood  and  finds  a  fitting  occasion — a  height 
always  out  of  the  reach  of  ordinary  talent.  And,  in  like  man- 
ner, it  is  a  very  dangerous  thing  to  compare  two  great  men  of  the 
same  class  ;  for  instance,  two  great  poets,  or  musicians,  or  phi- 
losophers, or  artists  ;  because  injustice  to  the  one  or  the  other 
at  least  for  the  moment,  can  hardly  be  avoided.  For  in  mak- 
ing a  comparison  of  the  kind  the  critic  looks  to  some  particular 
merit  of  the  one  and  at  once  discovers  that  it  is  absent  in  the 
other,  who  is  thereby  disparaged.  And  then  if  the  process  is 
reversed,  and  the  critic  begins  with  the  latter  and  discovers 
his  peculiar  merit,  which  is  quite  of  a  different  order  from  that 
presented  by  the  former,  with  whom  it  may  be  looked  for  in 
vain,  the  result  is  that  both  of  them  suffer  undue  depreciation. 

There  are  critics  who  severally  think  that  it  rests  with  each 
one  of  them  what  shall  be  accounted  good,  and  what  bad. 
They  all  mistake  their  own  toy-trumpets  for  the  trombones 
of  fame. 

A  drug  does  not  effe6l  its  purpose  if  the  dose  is  too  large  ; 
and  it  is  the  same  with  censure  and  adverse  criticism  when  it 
exceeds  the  measure  of  justice. 

The  disastrous  thing  for  intelledlual  merit  is  that  it  must  wait 
for  those  to  praise  the  good  who  have  themselves  produced 
nothing  but  what  is  bad  ;  nay,  it  is  a  primary  misfortune  that 
it  has  to  receive  its  crown  at  the  hands  of  the  critical  power  of 
mankind — a  quality  of  which  most  men  possess  only  the  weak 
and  impotent  semblance,  so  that  the  reality  may  be  numbered 
amongst  the  rarest  gifts  of  nature.  Hence  La  Bruyere's  re- 
mark is,  unhappily,  as  true  as  it  is  neat.  Apres  V esprit  de 
discemement,  he  says,  ce  qu  il  y  a  au  monde  de  plus  rare,  ce 
sont  les  diamans  et  les  perles.  The  spirit  of  discernment !  the 
critical  faculty  !  it  is  these  that  are  lacking.  Men  do  not  know 
how  to  distinguish  the  genuine  from  the  false,  the  corn  from 
the  chaff,  gold  from  copper  ;  or  to  perceive  the  wide  gulf  that 
separates  a  genius  from  an  ordinary  man.     Thus  we  have  that 


68  THE   ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

bad  state  of  things  described  in  an  old-fashioned  verse,  which 
gives  it  as  the  lot  of  the  great  ones  here  on  earth  to  be  recog- 
nized only  when  they  are  gone  : — 

Es  ist  nun  das  Geschick  der  Grossen  hier  auf  Erden, 
Erst  zvann  sie  nicht  niehr  sind,  von  uns  erkannt  zu  werden. 

When  any  genuine  and  excellent  work  makes  its  appearance, 

the  chief  difficulty  in  its  way  is  the  amount  of  bad  work  it  finds 

already  in  possession  of  the  field,  and  accepted  as  though  it 

were  good.     And  then   if,  after  a  long  time,  the  new  comer 

really  succeeds,  by  a  hard  struggle,  in  vindicating  his  place  for 

himself  and  winning  reputation,  he  will  soon  encounter  fresh 

difficulty  from  some  aflre6ted,  dull,  awkward  imitator,  whom 

people  drag  in,  with  the  object  of  calmly  setting  him  up  on  the 

altar  beside  the  genius  ;  not  seeing  the  difference  and  really 

thinking  that  here  they  have  to  do  with  another  great  man. 

This  is  what  Yriarte  means  by  the  first  lines  of  his  twenty-eighth 

Fable,  where  he  declares  that  the  ignorant  rabble  always  sets 

equal  value  on  the  good  and  the  bad  : — 

Siempre  acosttimhra  hacer  el  vulgo  necio 
De  lo  bueno  y  lo  malo  igual  aprecio. 

So  even  Shakespeare's  dramas  had,  immediately  after  his 
death,  to  give  place  to  those  of  Ben  Jonson,  Massinger,  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  and  to  yield  the  supremacy  for  a  hundred 
years.  So  Kant's  serious  philosophy  was  crowded  out  by  the 
nonsense  of  Fichte,  Schelling,  Jacobi,  Hegel.  And  even  in  a 
sphere  accessible  to  all,  we  have  seen  unworthy  imitators 
quickly  diverting  public  attention  from  the  incomparable 
Walter  Scott.  For,  say  what  you  will,  the  public  has  no  sense 
for  excellence,  and  therefore  no  notion  how  very  rare  it  is  to 
find  men  really  capable  of  doing  anything  great  in  poetry, 
philosophy,  or  art,  or  that  their  works  are  alone  worthy  of  ex- 
clusive-attention. The  dabblers,  whether  in  verse  or  in  any 
other  high  sphere,  should  be  every  day  unsparingly  reminded 
that  neither  gods,  nor  men,  nor  booksellers  have  pardoned 
their  mediocrity  : — 

mediocribus  esse  poetis 
Non  homines,  non  Di,  non  concessere  columna.^ 

'  Horace,  Ars  Poetica,  372. 


ON    CRITICISM.  69 

Are  they  not  the  weeds  that  prevent  the  com  coming  up,  so 
that  they  may  cover  all  the  ground  themselves  ?  And  then 
there  happens  that  which  has  been  well  and  freshly  described 
by  the  lamented  Feuchtersleben,*  who  died  so  young  :  how 
people  cry  out  in  their  haste  that  nothing  is  being  done,  while 
all  the  while  great  work  is  quietly  growing  to  maturity  ;  and 
then,  when  it  appears,  it  is  not  seen  or  heard  in  the  clamor, 
but  goes  its  way  silently,  in  modest  grief : — 

"  1st  dock,''' — rufen  sie  7'ermessen — 
'' Nichts  itn  Werke,  nichts  gethan!'''' 

Und  das  Grosse,  reift  indessen 

Still  heran. 

Es  ersheint  nun :  niemand  sieht  es, 
■   Niemand  h'drt  es  im  Geschrei. 
Mil  bescheid'ner  Trauer  zieht  es 
Still  vorbei. 

This  lamentable  dearth  of  the  critical  faculty  is  not  less  obvi- 
ous in  the  case  of  science,  as  is  shown  by  the  tenacious  life  of 
false  and  disproved  theories.  If  they  are  once  accepted,  they 
may  go  on  bidding  defiance  to  truth  for  fifty  or  even  a  hundred 
years  and  more,  as  stable  as  an  iron  pier  in  the  midst  of  the 
waves.  The  Ptolematic  system  was  still  held  a  century  after 
Copernicus  had  promulgated  his  theory.  Bacon,  Descartes 
and  Locke  made  their  way  extremely,  slowly  and  only  after  a 
long  time  ;  as  the  reader  may  see  by  d'Alembert's  celebrated 
Preface  to  the  Encyclopedia.  Newton  was  not  more  successful ; 
and  this  is  sufficiently  proved  by  the  bitterness  and  contempt 
with  which  Leibnitz  attacked  his  theory  of  gravitation  in  the 
controversy  with  Clarke.  *  Although  Newton  lived  for  almost 
forty  years  after  the  appearance  of  the  Priyicipia,  his  teaching 
was,  when  he  died,  only  to  some  extent  accepted  in  his  own 
country,  whilst  outside  England  he  counted  scarcely  twenty 
adherents  ;  if  we  may  believe  the  introductory  note  to  Voltaire's 

'^Translator's  Note. — Ernst  Freiherr  von  Feuchtersleben  (1806-49), 
an  Austrian  physician,  philosopher,  and  poet,  and  a  specialist  in  med- 
ical psvchology.  The  best  known  of  his  song^s  is  that  beg^inning  "'Es 
ist bestimmt in  Gothes  Rath,''  to  which  Mendelssohn  composed  one 
of  his  finest  melodies. 

•See  especially  \\  35,  113,  118,  120,  122,  128. 


70  THE   ART   OF   LITERATURE. 

exposition  of  his  theory.  It  was,  indeed,  chiefly  owing  to  this 
treatise  of  Voltaire's  that  the  system  became  known  in  France 
nearly  twenty  years  after  Newton's  death.  Until  then  a  firm, 
resolute,  and  patriotic  stand  was  made  by  the  Cartesian  Vor- 
tices;  whilst  only  forty  years  previously,  this  same  Cartesian 
philosophy  had  been  forbidden  in  the  French  schools ;  and 
now  in  turn  d'Agnesseau,  the  Chancellor,  refused  Voltaire  the 
Imprimatur  for  his  treatise  on  the  Newtonian  do6trine.  On 
the  other  hand,  in  our  day  Newton's  absurd  theory  of  color 
still  completely  holds  the  field,  forty  years  after  the  publication 
of  Goethe's.  Hume,  too,  was  disregarded  up  to  his  fiftieth 
year,  though  he  began  very  early  and  wrote  in  a  thoroughly 
popular  style.  And  Kant,  in  spite  of  having  written  and  talked 
all  his  life  long,  did  not  become  a  famous  man  until  he  was 
sixty. 

Artists  and  poets  have,  to  be  .sure,  more  chance  than  think- 
ers, because  their  public  is  at  least  a  hundred  times  as  large. 
Still,  what  was  thought  of  Beethoven  and  Mozart  during  their 
livv-s?  what  of  Dante?  what  even  of  Shakespeare  ?  If  the  lat- 
ter's  contemporaries  had  in  any  way  recognized  his  worth,  at 
least  one  good  and  accredited  portrait  of  him  would  have  come 
down  to  us  from  an  age  when  the  art  of  painting  flourished  ; 
whereas  we  possess  only  some  very  doubtful  pictures,  a  bad 
copperplate,  and  a  still  worse  bust  on  his  tomb.'  And  in  like 
manner,  if  he  had  been  duly  honored,  specimens  of  his  hand- 
writing would  have  been  preserved  to  us  by  the  hundred,  in- 
stead of  being  confined,  as  is  the  case,  to  the  signatures  to  a 
few  legal  documents.  The  Portuguese  are  still  proud  of  their 
only  poet  Camoens.  He  lived,  however,  on  alms  colle6led 
every  evening  in  the  street  by  a  black  slave  whom  he  had 
brought  with  him  from  the  Indies.  In  time,  no  doubt,  justice 
will  be  done  to  everyone  ;  teynpo  e  galant^  uomo  ;  but  it  is  as 
late  and  slow  in  arriving  as  in  a  court  of  law,  and  the  secret 
condition  of  it  is  that  the  recipient  shall  be  no  longer  alive. 

'  A.  Wivell:  An  Inquiry  into  the  History,  Authenticity ,  and  Charac- 
teristics of  Shakespeare' s  Portraits  ;  with  21  engravings.   London,  1836. 


ON   CRITICISM.  71 

The  precept  of  Jesus  the  son  of  Sirach  is  faithfully  followed  : 
Judge  none  blessed  before  his  death}  He,  then,  who  has  pro- 
duced immortal  works,  must  find  comfort  by  applying  to  them 
the  words  of  the  Indian  myth,  that  the  minutes  of  life  amongst 
the  immortals  seem  like  years  of  earthly  existence  ;  and  so,  too, 
that  years  upon  earth  are  only  as  the  minutes  of  the  immortals. 

This  lack  of  critical  insight  is  also  shown  by  the  fact  that, 
while  in  every  century  the  excellent  work  of  earlier  time  is  held 
in  honor,  that  of  its  own  is  misunderstood,  and  the  attention 
which  is  its  due  is  given  to  bad  work,  such  as  every  decade 
carries  with  it  only  to  be  the  sport  of  the  next.  That  men  are 
slow  to  recognize  genuine  merit  when  it  appears  in  their  own 
age,  also  proves  that  they  do  not  understand  or  enjoy  or  really 
value  the  long-acknowledged  works  of  genius,  which  they 
honor  only  on  the  score  of  authority.  The  crucial  test  is  the 
facl  that  bad  work — Fichte's  philosophy,  for  example — if  it 
wins  any  reputation,  also  maintains  it  for  one  or  two  genera- 
tions ;  and  only  when  its  public  is  very  large  does  its  fall 
follow  sooner. 

Now,  just  as  the  sun  cannot  shed  its  light  but  to  the  eye  that 
sees  it,  nor  music  sound  but  to  the  hearing  ear,  so  the  value 
of  all  masterly  work  in  art  and  science  is  conditioned  by  the 
kinship  and  capacity  of  the  mind  to  which  it  speaks.  It  is 
only  such  a  mind  as  this  that  possesses  the  magic  word  to  stir 
and  call  forth  the  spirits  that  lie  hidden  in  great  work.  To  the 
ordinary  mind  a  masterpiece  is  a  sealed  cabinet  of  mystery, — 
an  unfamilar  musical  instrument  from  which  the  player,  how- 
ever much  he  may  flatter  himself,  can  draw  none  but  confused 
tones.  How  different  a  painting  looks  when  seen  '\n\  good 
hght,  as  compared  with  some  dark  corner  !  Just  in  the  same 
way,  the  impression  made  by  a  masterpiece  varies  with  the 
capacity  of  the  mind  to  understand  it. 

A  fine  work,  then,  requires  a  mind  sensitive  to  its  beauty  ;  a 
thoughtful  work,  a  mind  that  can  really  think,  if  it  is  to  exist 
and  live  at  all.     But  alas  !  it  may  happen  only  too  often  that 

'  Eidcsiasticus,  xi.  28. 


72  THE  ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

he  who  gives  a  fine  work  to  the  world  afterwards  feels  like  a 
maker  of  fireworks,  who  displays  with  enthusiasm  the  wonders 
that  have  taken  him  so  much  time  and  trouble  to  prepare,  and 
then  learns  that  he  has  come  to  the  wrong  place,  and  that  the 
fancied  spectators  were  one  and  all  inmates  of  an  asylum  for 
the  blind.  Still  even  that  is  better  than  if  his  public  had  con- 
sisted entirely  of  men  who  made  fireworks  themselves  ;  as  in 
this  case,  if  his  display  had  been  extraordinarily  good,  it  might 
possibly  have  cost  him  his  head. 

The  source  of  all  pleasure  and  delight  is  the  feeling  of  kin- 
ship. Even  with  the  sense  of  beauty  it  is  unquestionably  our 
own  species  in  the  animal  world,  and  then  again  our  own  race, 
that  appears  to  us  the  fairest.  So,  too,  in  intercourse  with 
others,  every  man  shows  a  decided  preference  for  those  who 
resemble  him  ;  and  a  blockhead  will  find  the  society  of  another 
blockhead  incomparably  more  pleasant  than  that  of  any  number 
of  great  minds  put  together.  Every  man  must  necessarily 
take  his  chief  pleasure  in  his  own  work,  because  it  is  the  mirror 
of  his  own  mind,  the  echo  of  his  own  thought ;  and  next  in 
order  will  come  the  work  of  people  like  him  ;  that  is  to  say,  a 
dull,  shallow  and  perverse  man,  a  dealer  in  mere  words,  will 
give  his  sincere  and  hearty  applause  only  to  that  which  is  dull, 
shallow,  perverse  or  merely  verbose.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
will  allow  merit  to  the  work  of  great  minds  only  on  the  score 
of  authority,  in  other  words,  because  he  is  ashamed  to  speak 
his  opinion  ;  for  in  reality  they  give  him  no  pleasure  at  all. 
They  do  not  appeal  to  him  ;  nay,  they  repel  him  ;  and  he  will 
not  confess  this  even  to  himself.  The  works  of  genius  cannot  be 
fully  enjoyed  except  by  those  who  are  themselves  of  the  privi- 
leged order.  The  first  recognition  of  them,  however,  when 
they  exist  without  authority  to  support  them,  demands  con- 
siderable superiority  of  mind. 

When  the  reader  takes  all  this  into  consideration,  he  should 
be  surprised,  not  that  great  work  is  so  late  in  winning  reputa- 
tion, but  that  it  wins  it  at  all.  And  as  a  matter  of  fadt,  fame 
comer   only   by   a  slow   and  complex  process.      The  stupid 


ON    CRITICISM.  73 

person  is  by  degrees  forced,  and  as  it  were,  tamed,  into  recog- 
nizing the  superiority  of  one  who  stands  immediately  above 
him  ;  this  one  in  his  turn  bows  before  some  one  else  ;  and  so  it 
goes  on  until  the  weight  of  the  votes  gradually  prevail  over 
their  number  ;  and  this  is  just  the  condition  of  all  genuine,  in 
other  words,  deserved  fame.  But  until  then,  the  greatest 
genius,  even  after  he  has  passed  his  time  of  trial,  stands  like  a 
king  amidst  a  crowd  of  his  own  subje6ls,  who  do  not  know 
him  by  sight  and  therefore  will  not  do  his  behests  ;  unless,  in- 
deed, his  chief  ministers  of  state  are  in  his  train.  For  no 
subordinate  official  can  be  the  direct  recipient  of  the  roy: 
commands,  as  he  knows  only  the  signature  of  his  immediate 
superior  ;  and  this  is  repeated  all  the  way  up  into  the  highest 
ranks,  where  the  under-secretary  attests  the  minister's  signa- 
ture, and  the  minister  that  of  the  king.  There  are  analogous 
stages  to  be  passed  before  a  genius  can  attain  wide-spread 
fame.  This  is  why  his  reputation  most  easily  comes  to  a  stand- 
still at  the  very  outset ;  because  the  highest  authorities,  of 
whom  there  can  be  but  few,  are  most  frequently  not  to  be 
found  ;  but  the  further  down  he  goes  in  the  scale  the  more 
numerous  are  those  who  take  the  word  from  above,  so  that  his 
fame  is  no  more  arrested. 

We  must  console  ourselves  for  this  state  of  things  by  refle6l- 
ing  that  it  is  really  fortunate  that  the  greater  number  of  men  do 
not  form  a  judgment  on  their  own  responsibility,  but  merely 
take  it  on  authority.  For  what  sort  of  criticism  should  we  have 
on  Plato  and  Kant,  Homer,  Shakespeare  and  Goethe,  if  every 
man  were  to  form  his  opinion  by  what  he  really  has  and  enjoys 
of  these  writers,  instead  of  being  forced  by  authority  to  speak 
of  them  in  a  fit  and  proper  way,  however  little  he  may  really 
feel  what  he  says.  Unless  something  of  this  kind  took  place, 
it  would  be  impossible  for  true  merit,  in  any  high  sphere,  to 
attain  fame  at  all.  At  the  same  time  it  is  also  fortunate  that 
every  man  has  just  so  much  critical  power  of  his  own  as  is 
necessary  for  recognizing  the  superiority  of  those  who  are 
placed  immediately  over  him,  and  for  following   their  lead. 


74  THE  ART   OF   LITERATURE. 

This  means  that  the  many  come  in  the  end  to  submit  to  the 
authority  of  the  few  ;  and  there  results  that  hierarchy  of  critical 
judgments  on  which  is  based  the  possibility  of  a  steady,  and 
eventually  wide-reaching,  fame.  ! 

The  lowest  class  in  the  community  is  quite  impervious  to  the 
merits  of  a  great  genius  ;  and  for  these  people  there  is  nothing 
left  but  the  monument  raised  to  him,  which,  by  the  impression 
it  produces  on  their  senses,  awakes  in  them  a  dim  idea  of  the 
man's  greatness. 

Literary  journals  should  be  a  dam  against  the  unconscionable 
scribbling  of  the  age,  and  the  ever-increasing  deluge  of  bad 
and  useless  books.  Their  judgments  should  be  uncorrupted, 
just  and  rigorous ;  and  every  piece  of  bad  work  done  by  an 
incapable  person  ;  every  device  by  which  the  empty  head  tries 
to  come  to  the  assistance  of  the  empty  purse,  that  is  to  say, 
about  nine-tenths  of  all  existing  books,  should  be  mercilessly 
scourged.  Literary  journals  would  then  perform  their  duty, 
which  is  to  keep  down  the  craving  for  writing  and  put  a  check 
upon  the  deception  of  the  public,  instead  of  furthering  these 
evils  by  a  miserable  toleration,  which  plays  into  the  hands  of 
author  and  publisher,  and  robs  the  reader  of  his  time  and  his 
money. 

If  there  were  such  a  paper  as  I  mean,  every  bad  writer, 
every  brainless  compiler,  every  plagiarist  from  others'  books, 
every  hollow  and  incapable  place-hunter,  every  sham-philoso- 
pher, every  vain  and  languishing  poetaster,  would  shudder 
at  the  prospect  of  the  pillory  in  which  his  bad  work  would  in- 
evitably have  to  stand  soon  after  publication.  This  would 
paralyze  his  twitching  fingers,  to  the  true  welfare  of  literature, 
in  which  what  is  bad  is  not  only  useless  but  positively  perni- 
cious. Now,  most  books  are  bad  and  ought  to  have  remained 
unwritten.  Consequently  praise  should  be  as  rare  as  is  now 
the  case  with  blame,  which  is  withheld  under  the  influence  of 
personal  considerations,  coupled  with  the  maxim  accedas  socius, 
laudes  lauderis  ut  absens. 

It  is  quite  wrong  to  try  to  introduce  into  Hterature  the  same 


ON   CRITICISM.  75 

toleration  as  must  necessarily  prevail  in  society  towards  those 
stupid,  brainless  people  who  everywhere  swarm  in  it.  In 
literature  such  people  are  impudent  intruders  ;  and  to  dispar- 
age the  bad  is  here  duty  towards  the  good ;  for  he  who  thinks 
nothing  bad  will  think  nothing  good  either.  Politeness,  which 
has  its  source  in  social  relations,  is  in  literature  an  alien,  and 
often  injurious,  element ;  because  it  exadls  that  bad  work  shall 
be  called  good.  In  this  way  the  very  aim  of  science  and  art  is 
dire6tly  frustrated. 

This  ideal  journal  could,  to  be  sure,  be  written  only  by 
people  who  joined  incorruptible  honesty  with  rare  knowledge 
and  still  rarer  power  of  judgment ;  so  that  perhaps  there  could, 
at  the  very  most,  be  one,  and  even  hardly  one,  in  the  whole 
Cvountry  ;  but  there  it  would  stand,  like  a  just  Areopagus, 
every  member  of  which  would  have  to  be  ele6led  by  all  the 
others.  Under  the  system  that  prevails  at  present,  hterary 
journals  are  carried  on  by  a  clique,  and  secretly  perhaps  also 
by  booksellers  for  the  good  of  the  trade  ;  and  they  are  often 
nothing  but  coalitions  of  bad  heads  to  prevent  the  good  ones 
succeeding.  As  Goethe  once  remarked  to  me,  nowhere  is 
there  so  much  dishonesty  as  in  literature. 

But,  above  all,  anonymity,  that  shield  of  all  literary  rascali- 
ty, would  have  to  disappear.  It  was  introduced  under  the 
pretext  of  protecting  the  honest  critic,  who  warned  the  public, 
against  the  resentment  of  the  author  and  his  friends.  But 
where  there  is  one  case  of  this  sort,  there  will  be  a  hundred 
where  it  merely  serves  to  take  all  responsibility  from  the  man 
who  cannot  stand  by  what  he  has  said,  or  possibly  to  conceal 
the  shame  of  one  who  has  been  cowardly  and  base  enough  to 
recommmend  a  book  to  the  public  for  the  purpose  of  putting 
money  into  his  own  pocket.  Often  enough  it  is  only  a  cloak 
for  covering  the  obscurity,  incompetence  and  insignificance  of 
the  critic.  It  is  incredible  what  impudence  these  fellows  will 
show,  and  what  literary  trickery  they  will  venture  to  com- 
mit, as  soon  as  they  know  they  are  safe  under  the  shadow  of 
anonymity.     Let  me  recommend  a  general  Anti-criticism,  a 


76  THE   ART   OF   LITERATURE. 

universal  medicine  or  panacea,  to  put  a  stop  to  all  anonymous 
reviewing,  whether  it  praises  the  bad  or  blames  the  good  : 
Rascal !  your  name  /  For  a  man  to  wrap  himself  up  and  draw 
his  hat  over  his  face,  and  then  fall  upon  people  who  are  walk- 
ing about  without  any  disguise — this  is  not  the  part  of  a 
gentleman,  it  is  the  part  of  a  scoundrel  and  a  knave. 

An  anonymous  review  has  no  more  authority  than  an  anony- 
mous letter  ;  and  one  should  be  received  with  the  same  mis- 
trust as  the  other.  Or  shall  we  take  the  name  of  the  man  who 
consents  to  preside  over  what  is,  in  the  stri<5t  sense  of  the  word, 
u?ie  societi  anonyme  as  a  guarantee  for  the  veracity  of  his 
colleagues  ? 

Even  Rousseau,  in  the  preface  to  the  Nouvelle  Heloise,  de- 
clares tout  honnite  homme  doit  avouer  les  livres  quHl  public ; 
which  in  plain  language  means  that  every  honorable  man  ought 
to  sign  his  articles,  and  that  no  one  is  honorable  who  does  not 
do  so.  How  much  truer  this  is  of  polemical  writing,  which  is 
the  general  character  of  reviews  !  Riemer  was  quite  right  in 
the  opinion  he  gives  in  his  Reminiscences  of  Goethe:^  An 
overt  enem.y,  he  says,  an  enemy  who  vieets  you  face  to  face,  is 
an  honorable  man,  who  will  treat  you  fairly,  and  with  whom 
you  can  come  to  terms  and  be  reconciled:  but  an  enemy  who 
conceals  himself  is  a  base,  cowardly  scoundrel,  who  has  not 
courage  enough  to  avow  his  own  judgment ;  it  is  not  his  opinion 
that  he  cares  about,  but  only  the  secret  pleaszire  of  wrecking  his 
anger  without  being  found  out  or  punished.  This  will  also 
have  been  Goethe's  opinion,  as  he  was  generally  the  source 
from  which  Riemer  drew  his  observations.  And,  indeed, 
Rousseau's  maxim  applies  to  every  line  that  is  printed.  Would 
a  man  in  a  mask  ever  be  allowed  to  harangue  a  mob,  or  speak 
in  any  assembly  ;  and  that,  too,  when  he  was  going  to  attack 
others  and  overwhelm  them  with  abuse  ?  • 

Anonymity  is  the  refuge  for  all  literary  and  journalistic 
rascality.  It  is  a  pra(5lice  which  must  be  completely  stopped. 
Every  article,  even  in  a  newspaper,  should  be  accompanied 

•  Preface,  p.  xxix. 


ON  CRITICISM.  77 

by  the  name  of  its  author ;  and  the  editor  should  be  made 
striftly  responsible  for  the  accuracy  of  the  signature.  The 
freedom  of  the  press  should  be  thus  far  restridled  ;  so  that 
when  a  man  publicly  proclaims  through  the  far-sounding 
trumpet  of  the  newspaper,  he  should  be  answerable  for,  at 
any  rate  with  his  honor,  if  he  has  any  ;  and  if  he  has  none, 
let  his  name  neutralize  the  effedl  of  his  words.  And  since 
even  the  most  insignificant  person  is  known  in  his  own  circle, 
the  result  of  such  a  measure  would  be  to  put  an  end  to  two- 
thirds  of  the  newspaper  lies,  and  to  restrain  the  audacity  of 
many  a  poisonous  tongue. 


ON    REPUTATION. 

WRITERS  may  be  classified  as  meteors,  planets  and 
fixed  stars.  A  meteor  makes  a  striking  effedl  for 
a  moment.  You  look  up  and  cry  There!  and  it  is  gone 
for  ever.  Planets  and  wandering  stars  last  a  much  longer 
time.  They  often  outshine  the  fixed  stars  and  are  confounded 
with  them  by  the  inexperienced  ;  but  this  only  because  they 
are  near.  It  is  not  long  before  they  too  must  yield  their 
place  ;  nay,  the  light  they  give  is  reflected  only,  and  the  sphere 
of  their  influence  is  confined  to  their  own  orbit — their  con- 
temporaries. Their  path  is  one  of  change  and  movement,  and 
with  the  circuit  of  a  few  years  their  tale  is  told.  Fixed  stars 
are  the  only  ones  that  are  constant ;  their  position  in  the 
firmament  is  secure ;  they  shine  with  a  light  of  their  own  ; 
their  effect  to-day  is  the  same  as  it  was  yesterday,  because, 
having  no  parallax,  their  appearance  does  not  alter  with  a 
difference  in  our  standpoint.  They  belong  not  to  one  system, 
one  nation  only,  but  to  the  universe.  And  just  because  they 
are  so  very  far  away,  it  is  usually  many  years  before  their 
light  is  visible  to  the  inhabitants  of  this  earth. 

We  have  seen  in  the  previous  chapter  that  where  a  man's 
merits  are  of  a  high  order,  it  is  difficult  for  him  to  win  reputa- 
tion, because  the  public  is  uncritical  and  lacks  discernment. 
But  another  and  no  less  serious  hindrance  to  fame  comes  from 
the  envy  it  has  to  encounter.  For  even  in  the  lowest  kinds  of 
work,  envy  balks  even  the  beginnings  of  a  reputation,  and  never 
ceases  to  cleave  to  it  up  to  the  last.  How  great  a  part  is 
played  by  envy  in  the  wicked  ways  of  the  world  !  Ariosto  is 
right  in  saying  that  the  dark  side  of  our  mortal  life  pre- 
dominates, so  full  it  is  of  this  evil  : — 

questa  assai  piu  oscura  che  serena 
Vita  mortal,  tutta  d'invidia  piena.  (78) 


ON  REPUTATION.  79 

For  envy  is  the  moving  spirit  of  that  secret  and  informal, 
though  flourishing,  alliance  everywhere  made  by  mediocrity 
against  individual  eminence,  no  matter  of  what  kind.  In  his 
own  sphere  of  work  no  one  will  allow  another  to  be  dis- 
tinguished :  he  is  an  intruder  who  cannot  be  tolerated.  St 
quelq'un  excelle  parmi  nous,  qu'll  aille  exceller  ailleurs ! 
this  is  the  universal  password  of  the  second-rate.  In  addition, 
then,  to  the  rarity  of  true  merit  and  the  difficulty  it  has  in  be- 
ing understood  and  recognized,  there  is  the  envy  of  thousands 
to  be  reckoned  with,  all  of  them  bent  on  suppressing,  nay,  on 
smothering  it  altogether.  No  one  is  taken  for  what  he  is,  but 
for  what  others  make  of  him  ;  and  this  is  the  handle  used  by 
mediocrity  to  keep  down  distinction,  by  not  letting  it  come  up 
as  long  as  that  can  possibly  be  prevented.  ''I 

There  are  two  ways  of  behaving  in  regard  to  merit :  either 
to  have  some  of  one's  own,  or  to  refuse  any  to  others.  The 
latter  method  is  more  convenient,  and  so  it  is  generally 
adopted.  As  envy  is  a  mere  sign  of  deficiency,  so  to  envy 
merit  argues  the  lack  of  it.  My  excellent  Balthazar  Gracian 
has  given  a  very  fine  account  of  this  relation  between  envy 
and  merit  in  a  lengthy  fable,  which  may  be  found  in  his 
Discreto  under  the  heading  Hombre  de  ostentacion.  He  de- 
scribes all  the  birds  as  meeting  together  and  conspiring  against 
the  peacock,  because  of  his  magnificent  feathers.  If,  said  the 
magpie,  we  could  only  manage  to  put  a  stop  to  the  cursed  parad- 
ing of  his  tail,  there  would  soon  be  an  e?id  of  his  beauty ;  for 
what  is  not  seen  is  as  good  as  what  does  not  exist. 

This  explains  how  modesty  came  to  be  a  virtue.  It  was  in- 
vented only  as  a  protection  against  envy.  That  there  have  al- 
ways been  rascals  to  urge  this  virtue,  and  to  rejoice  heartily  over 
the  bashfulness  of  a  man  of  merit,  has  been  shown  at  length  in 
my  chief  work. ^  In  Lichtenberg's  Miscellayieous  Writiyiirs  I  find 
this  sentence  quoted  :  Modesty  should  be  the  virtue  of  those  who 
possess  no  other.  Goethe  has  a  well-known  saying,  which 
offends  many  people  :  It  is  only  kyiaves  who  are  modest  / — I^ur 

'  Welt  als  mile,  Vol.  II  c.  37. 


8o  THE   ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

die  Lumpen  sind  bescheiden!  but  it  has  its  prototype  in 
Cervantes,  who  includes  in  his  Jotirney  up  Parnassus  certain 
rules  of  conduct  for  poets,  and  amongst  them  the  following  : 
Every 07ie  whose  verse  shows  him  to  be  a  poet  should  have  a  high 
opinion  of  himself,  relying  on  the  proverb  that  he  is  a  knave  who 
thinks  himself  one.  And  Shakespeare,  in  many  of  his  Sonettes, 
which  gave  him  the  only  opportunity  he  had  of  speak- 
ing of  himself,  declares,  with  a  confidence  equal  to  his  in- 
genuousness, that  what  he  writes  is  immortal.* 

A  method  of  underrating  good  work  often  used  by  envy — 
in  reality,  however,  only  the  obverse  side  of  it — consists  in  the 
dishonorable  and  unscrupulous  laudation  of  the  bad  ;  for  no 
sooner  does  bad  work  gain  currency  than  it  draws  attention 
from  the  good.  But  however  effe6live  this  method  may  be 
for  a  while,  especially  if  it  is  applied  on  a  large  scale,  the  day 
of  reckoning  comes  at  last,  and  the  fleeting  credit  given  to  bad 
work  is  paid  off  by  the  lasting  discredit  which  overtakes  those 
who  abje6lly  praised  it.  Hence  these  critics  prefer  to  remain 
anonymous. 

A  like  fate  threatens,  though  more  remotely,  those  who 
depreciate  and  censure  good  work  ;  and  consequently  many 
are  too  prudent  to  attempt  it.  But  there  is  another  way  ;  and 
when  a  man  of  eminent  merit  appears,  the  first  effe61:  he  pro- 
duces is  often  only  to  pique  all  his  rivals,  just  as  the  peacock's 
tail  offended  the  birds.  This  reduces  them  to  a  deep  silence  ; 
and  their  silence  is  so  unanimous  that  it  savors  of  preconcer- 
tion.  Their  tongues  are  all  paralyzed.  It  is  the  silentium 
livoris  described  by  Seneca.  This  malicious  silence,  which  is 
technically  known  as  ignoring,  may  for  a  long  time  interfere 

'  Collier,  one  of  his  critical  editors,  in  his  Introduction  to  the 
Sonettes,  remarks  upon  this  point:  "In  many  of  them  are  to  be 
found  most  remarkable  indications  of  self-confidence  and  of  assur- 
ance in  the  immortality  of  his  verses,  and  in  this  respect  the  author's 
opinion  was  constant  and  uniform.  He  never  scruples  to  express 
it,  .  .  .  and  perhaps  there  is  no  writer  of  ancient  or  modern  times 
who,  for  the  quantity  of  such  writings  left  behind  him,  has  so  fre- 

3uently  or  so  strongly  declared  that  what  he  had  produced  in  this 
epartment  of  poetry  '  the  world  would  not  willingly  let  die.'  " 


ON   REPUTATION.  8l 

with  the  growth  of  reputation  ;  if,  as  happens  in  the  higher 
walks  of  learning,  where  a  man's  immediate  audience  is  wholly 
composed  of  rival  workers  and  professed  students,  who  then 
form  the  channel  of  his  fame,  the  greater  public  is  obliged  to 
use  its  suffrage  without  being  able  to  examine  the  matter  for 
itself  And  if,  in  the  end,  that  malicious  silence  is  broken  in 
upon  by  the  voice  of  praise,  it  will  be  but  seldom  that  this 
happens  entirely  apart  from  some  ulterior  aim,  pursued  by 
those  who  thus  manipulate  justice.  For,  as  Goethe  says  in  the 
West-ostlicher  Divan,  a  man  can  get  no  recognition,  either 
from  many  persons  or  from  only  one,  unless  it  is  to  publish 
abroad  the  critic's  own  discernment  : 

Denn  es  ist  kein  Anerkennen, 
Weder  Vieler,  noch  des  Einen, 
Wenn  es  nicht  am   Tage  fbrdert, 
Wo  tnan  selbst  was  m'dchte  scheinen. 

The  credit  you  allow  to  another  man  engaged  in  work  similar 
to  your  own  or  akin  to  it,  must  at  bottom  be  withdrawn  from 
yourself;  and  you  can  praise  him  only  at  the  expense  of  your 
own  claims. 

Accordingly,  mankind  is  in  itself  not  at  all  inclined  to  award 
praise  and  reputation  ;  it  is  more  disposed  to  blame  and  find 
fault,  whereby  it  indirectly  praises  itself  If,  notwithstanding 
this,  praise  is  won  from  mankind,  some  extraneous  motive 
must  prevail.  I  am  not  here  referring  to  the  disgraceful  way 
in  which  mutual  friends  will  puff  one  another  into  a  reputa- 
tion ;  outside  of  that,  an  effedlual  motive  is  supplied  by  the 
feeling  that  next  to  the  merit  of  doing  something  oneself, 
comes  that  of  correcflly  appreciating  and  recognizing  what 
others  have  done.  This  accords  with  the  threefold  division  of 
heads  drawn  up  by  Hesiod,*  and  afterwards  by  MachiavelU.* 
There  are,  says  the  latter,  in  the  capacities  of  mankind,  three 
varieties :  one  man  will  understand  a  thing  by  himself ;  another 
so  far  as  it  is  explained  to  him  ;  a  third,  tieither  of  himself  nor 

•  Works  and  Days,  293. 
,         *  The  Prince,  ch.  22. 


82  THE  ART  OF  LITERATURE. 

when  it  is  put  clearly  before  him.  He,  then,  who  abandons 
hope  of  making  good  his  claims  to  the  first  class,  will  be  glad 
to  seize  the  opportunity  of  taking  a  place  in  the  second.  It  is 
almost  wholly  owing  to  this  state  of  things  that  merit  may 
always  rest  assured  of  ultimately  meeting  with  recognition. 

To  this  also  is  due  the  fact  that  when  the  value  of  a  work 
has  once  been  recognized  and  may  no  longer  be  concealed  or 
denied,  all  men  vie  in  praising  and  honoring  it ;  simply  be- 
cause they  are  conscious  of  thereby  doing  themselves  an 
honor.  They  act  in  the  spirit  of  Xenophon's  remark  :  he 
viust  be  a  wise  man  who  knows  what  is  wise.  So  when  they 
see  that  the  prize  of  original  merit  is  for  ever  out  of  their  reach, 
they  hasten  to  possess  themselves  of  that  which  comes  secona 
best — the  corre6l  appreciation  of  it.  Here  it  happens  as  with 
an  army  which  has  been  forced  to  yield  ;  when,  just  as  previ- 
ously every  man  wanted  to  be  foremost  in  the  fight,  so  now 
every  man  tries  to  be  foremost  in  running  away.  They  all 
hurry  forward  to  offer  their  applause  to  one  who  is  now  recog- 
nized to  be  worthy  of  praise,  in  virtue  of  a  recognition,  as  a 
rule  unconscious,  of  that  law  of  homogeneity  which  I  men- 
tioned in  the  last  chapter ;  so  that  it  may  seem  as  though 
their  way  of  thinking  and  looking  at  things  were  homogeneous 
with  that  of  the  celebrated  man,  and  that  they  may  at  least 
save  the  honor  of  their  literary  taste,  since  nothing  else  is  left 
them. 

From  this  it  is  plain  that,  whereas  it  is  very  difficult  to  win 
fame,  it  is  not  hard  to  keep  it  when  once  attained  ;  and  also 
that  a  reputation  which  comes  quickly  does  not  last  very  long  ; 
for  here  too,  quod  citofit,  cito  perit.  It  is  obvious  that  if  the 
ordinary  average  man  can  easily  recognize,  and  the  rival 
workers  willingly  acknowledge,  the  value  of  any  performance, 
it  will  not  stand  very  much  above  the  capacity  of  either  of 
them  to  achieve  it  for  themselves.  Tantum  quisque  laudat, 
quantum  se  posse  sperat  imitari — a  man  will  praise  a  thing  only 
so  far  as  he  hopes  to  be  able  to  imitate  it  himself.  Further,  it 
is  a  suspicious  sign  if  a  reputation  comes  quickly  ;  for  an  ap- 


ON   REPUTATION.  83 

plication  of  the  laws  of  homogeneity  will  show  that  such  a  re- 
putation is  nothing  but  the  direct  applause  of  the  multitude. 
What  this  means  may  be  seen  by  a  remark  once  made  by 
Phocion,  when  he  was  interrupted  in  a  speech  by  the  loud 
cheers  of  the  mob.  Turning  to  his  friends  who  were  standing 
close  by,  he  asked  :  Have  I  made  a  mistake  and  said  something 
stupid?^ 

Contrarily,  a  reputation  that  is  to  last  a  long  time  must  be 
slow  in  maturing,  and  the  centuries  of  its  duration  have 
generally  to  be  bought  at  the  cost  of  contemporary  praise. 
For  that  which  is  to  keep  its  position  so  long,  must  be  of  a 
perfection  difficult  to  attain  ;  and  even  to  recognize  this  perfec- 
tion requires  men  who  are  not  always  to  be  found,  and  never 
in  numbers  sufficiently  great  to  make  themselves  heard ; 
whereas  envy  is  always  on  the  watch  and  doing  its  best  to 
smother  their  voice.  But  with  moderate  talent,  which  soon 
meets  with  recognition,  there  is  the  danger  that  those  who 
possess  it  will  outlive  both  it  and  themselves  ;  so  that  a  youth 
of  fame  may  be  followed  by  an  old  age  of  obscurity.  In  the 
case  of  great  merit,  on  the  other  hand,  a  man  may  remain  un- 
known for  many  years,  but  make  up  for  it  later  on  by  attain- 
ing a  brilliant  reputation.  And  if  it  should  be  that  this  comes 
only  after  he  is  no  more,  well !  he  is  to  be  reckoned  amongst 
those  of  whom  Jean  Paul  says  that  extreme  unction  is  their 
baptism.  He  may  console  himself  by  thinking  of  the  Saints, 
who  also  are  canonized  only  after  they  are  dead. 

Thus  what  Mahlmann'  has  said  so  well  in  Herodes  holds 

good  ;  in  this  world  truly  great  work  never  pleases  at  once, 

and  the  god  set  up  by  the  multitude  keeps  his  place  on  the 

altar  but  a  short  time  : — 

Ich  denke,  das  wahre  Grosse  in  der  Welt 
1st  immer  nur  Das  was  nicht  gleich  gefallt 
Und  wen  der  P'obel  zum  Gotte  weiht, 
Der  steht  auf  dent  Altar  nur  kurze  Zeit. 

•  Plutarch,  Apophthegms. 
«  Translator's  Note. — August   Mahlmann  (1771-1826),  journalist, 
poet  and  story-writer.     His  Herodes  vor  Bethlehem  is  a  parody  ot 
Kotzebue's  Hussiten  vor  Naumburg. 


84  THE   ART   OF   LITERATURE. 

It  is  worth  mention  that  this  rule  is  most  diredlly  confirmed 
in  the  case  of  pictures,  where,  as  connoisseurs  well  know,  the 
greatest  masterpieces  are  not  the  first  to  attract  attention.  If 
they  make  a  deep  impression,  it  is  not  after  one,  but  only  after 
repeated,  inspection  ;  but  then  they  excite  more  and  more 
admiration  every  time  they  are  seen. 

Moreover,  the  chances  that  any  given  work  will  be  quickly 
and  rightly  appreciated,  depend  upon  two  conditions  :  firstly, 
the  character  of  the  work,  whether  high  or  low,  in  other 
words,  easy  or  difficult  to  understand  ;  and,  secondly,  the 
kind  of  public  it  attracts,  whether  large  or  small.  This  latter 
condition  is,  no  doubt,  in  most  instances  a  corollary  of  the 
former  ;  but  it  also  partly  depends  upon  whether  the  work  in 
question  admits,  like  books  and  musical  compositions,  of  be- 
ing reproduced  in  great  numbers.  By  the  compound  action 
of  these  two  conditions,  achievements  which  serve  no  materi- 
ally useful  end — and  these  alone  are  under  consideration  here 
— will  vary  in  regard  to  the  chances  they  have  of  meeting  with 
timely  recognition  and  due  appreciation  ;  and  the  order  of 
precedence,  beginning  with  those  who  have  the  greatest 
chance,  will  be  somewhat  as  follows  :  acrobats,  circus  riders, 
ballet-dancers,  jugglers,  actors,  singers,  musicians,  composers, 
poets  (both  the  last  on  account  of  the  multiplication  of  their 
works),  architects,  painters,  sculptors,  philosophers. 

The  last  place  of  all  is  unquestionably  taken  by  philosophers, 
because  their  works  are  meant  not  for  entertainment,  but  for 
instruction,  and  because  they  presume  some  knowledge  on  the 
part  of  the  reader,  and  require  him  to  make  an  effort  of  his  own 
to  understand  them.  This  makes  their  public  extremely  small, 
and  causes  their  fame  to  be  more  remarkable  for  its  length 
than  for  its  breadth.  And,  in  general,  it  may  be  said  that  the 
possibility  of  a  man's  fame  lasting  a  long  time,  stands  in  almost 
inverse  ratio  with  the  chance  that  it  will  be  early  in  making  its 
appearance  ;  so  that,  as  regards  length  of  fame,  the  above 
order  of  precedence  may  be  reversed.  But,  then,  the  poet  and 
the  composer  will  come  in  the  end  to  stand  on  the  same  level 


ON   REPUTATION.  85 

as  the  philosopher  ;  since,  when  once  a  work  is  committed  to 
writing,  it  is  possible  to  preserve  it  to  all  time.  However,  the 
first  place  still  belongs  by  right  to  the  philosopher,  because  of 
the  much  greater  scarcity  of  good  work  in  this  sphere,  and  the 
high  importance  of  it ;  and  also  because  of  the  possibility  it 
offers  of  an  almost  perfect  translation  into  any  language. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  it  happens  that  a  philosopher's  fame  out- 
lives even  his  works  themselves  ;  as  has  happened  with  Thales, 
Empedocles,  Heraclitus,  Democritus,  Parmenides,  Epicurus, 
and  many  others. 

My  remarks  are,  as  I  have  said,  confined  to  achievements 
that  are  not  of  any  material  use.  Work  that  serves  some 
practical  end,  or  ministers  directly  to  some  pleasure  of  the 
senses,  will  never  have  any  difficulty  in  being  duly  appreciated. 
No  first-rate  pastry-cook  could  long  remain  obscure  in  any 
town,  to  say  nothing  of  having  to  appeal  to  posterity. 

Under  fame  of  rapid  growth  is  also  to  be  reckoned  fame  of 
a  false  and  artificial  kind ;  where,  for  instance,  a  book  is 
worked  into  a  reputation  by  means  of  unjust  praise,  the  help 
of  friends,  corrupt  criticism,  prompting  from  above  and  col- 
lusion from  below.  All  this  tells  upon  the  multitude,  which  is 
rightly  presumed  to  have  no  power  of  judging  for  itself.  This 
sort  of  fame  is  like  a  swimming  bladder  ;  by  its  aid  a  heavy 
body  may  keep  afloat.  It  bears  up  for  a  certain  time,  long  or 
short  according  as  the  bladder  is  well  sewed  up  and  blown  ; 
but  still  the  air  comes  out  gradually,  and  the  body  sinks.  This 
is  the  inevitable  fate  of  all  works  which  are  famous  by  reason 
of  something  outside  of  themselves.  False  praise  dies  away  ; 
collusion  comes  to  an  end  ;  critics  declare  the  reputation  un- 
grounded ;  it  vanishes,  and  is  replaced  by  so  much  the  greater 
contempt.  Contrarily,  a  genuine  work,  which,  having  the 
source  of  its  fame  in  itself,  can  kindle  admiration  afresh  in  every 
age,  resembles  a  body  of  low  specific  gravity,  which  always 
keeps  up  of  its  own  accord,  and  so  goes  floating  down  the 
stream  of  time. 

Men  of  great  genius,   whether  their  work   be  in  poetry. 


86  THE    ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

philosophy  or  art,  stand  in  all  ages  like  isolated  heroes,  keep- 
ing up  single-handed  a  desperate  struggle  against  the  onslaught 
of  an  army  of  opponents.'  Is  not  this  characteristic  of  the 
miserable  nature  of  mankind  ?  The  dullness,  grossness,  per- 
versity, silliness  and  brutality  of  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the 
race,  are  always  an  obstacle  to  the  efforts  of  the  genius,  what- 
ever be  the  method  of  his  art  ;  they  so  form  that  hostile  army 
to  which  at  last  he  has  to  succumb.  Let  the  isolated  champion 
achieve  what  he  may  :  it  is  slow  to  be  acknowledged  ;  it  is 
late  in  being  appreciated,  and  then  only  on  the  score  of  author- 
ity ;  it  may  easily  fall  into  neglect  again,  at  any  rate  for  a 
while.  Ever  afresh  it  finds  itself  opposed  by  false,  shallow, 
and  insipid  ideas,  which  are  better  suited  to  that  large  majority, 
that  so  generally  hold  the  field.  Though  the  critic  may  step 
forth  and  say,  like  Hamlet  when  he  held  up  the  two  portraits 
to  his  wretched  mother.  Have  you  eyes?  Have  you  eyes  f  alas  ! 
they  have  none.  When  I  watch  the  behavior  of  a  crowd  of 
people  in  the  presence  of  some  great  master's  work,  and  mark 
the  manner  of  their  applause,  they  often  remind  me  of  trained 
monkeys  in  a  show.  The  monkey's  gestures  are,  no  doubt, 
much  like  those  of  men  ;  but  now  and  again  they  betray  that 
the  real  inward  spirit  of  those  gestures  is  not  in  them.  Their 
irrational  nature  peeps  out. 

It  is  often  said  of  a  man  that  he  is  in  advance  of  his  age ; 
and  it  follows  from  the  above  remarks  that  this  must  be  taken 
to  mean  that  he  is  in  advance  of  humanity  in  general.  Just 
because  of  this  fact,  a  genius  makes  no  direft  appeal  except 
to  those  who  are  themselves  considerably  above  the  average 
in  capacity  ;  and  these  are  too  rare  to  allow  of  their  ever  form- 
ing a  numerous  body  at  any  one  period.  If  he  is  in  this  re- 
spect not  particularly  favored  by  fortune,  he  will  be  misunder- 

'  Translator' s  Note.— At  this  point  Schopenhauer  interrupts  the 
thread  of  his  discourse  to  speak  at  length  upon  an  example  of  false 
fame.  Those  who  are  at  all  acquainted  with  the  philosopher's  views 
will  not  be  surprised  to  find  that  the  writer  thus  held  up  to  scorn  is 
Hegel  ;  and  readers  of  the  other  volumes  in  this  series  will,  with  the 
translator,  have  had  by  now  quite  enough  of  the  subject.  The  pas- 
sage is  therefore  omitted. 


ON    REPUTATION.  87 

stood  by  his  own  age  ;  in  other  words,  he  will  remain  unaccepted 
until  time  gradually  brings  together  the  voices  of  those  few  per- 
sons who  are  capable  of  judging  a  work  of  such  high  character. 
Then  posterity  will  say  :  This  man  was  in  advance  of  his  age, 
mst^^d  oi  in  advance  0/ humanity ;  because  humanity  will  be 
glad  to  lay  the  burden  of  its  own  faults  upon  a  single  epoch. 

Hence,  if  a  man  has  been  superior  to  his  own  age,  he  would 
also  have  been  superior  to  any  other  :  provided  that,  in  that 
age,  by  some  rare  and  happy  chance,  a  few  just  men,  capable  of 
judging  in  the  sphere  of  his  achievements,  had  been  born  at 
the  same  time  with  him  ;  just  as  when,  according  to  a  beauti- 
ful Indian  myth,  Vischnu  becomes  incarnate  as  a  hero,  so,  too, 
Brahma  at  the  same  time  appears  as  the  singer  of  his  deeds  ; 
and  hence  Valmiki,  Vyasa  and  Kalidasa  are  incarnations  of 
Brahma. 

In  this  sense,  then,  it  may  be  said  that  every  immortal  work 
puts  its  age  to  the  proof,  whether  or  no  it  will  be  able  to  recog- 
nize the  merit  of  it.  As  a  rule,  the  men  of  any  age  stand  such 
a  test  no  better  than  the  neighbors  of  Philemon  and  Baucis, 
who  expelled  the  deities  they  failed  to  recognize.  Accordingly, 
the  right  standard  for  judging  the  intelledlual  worth  of  any 
generation  is  supplied,  not  by  the  great  minds  that  make  their 
appearance  in  it — for  their  capacities  are  the  work  of  Nature, 
and  the  possibility  of  cultivating  them  a  matter  of  chance 
circumstance — but  by  the  way  in  which  contemporaries  receive 
their  works  ;  whether,  I  mean,  they  give  their  applause  soon 
and  with  a  will,  or  late  and  in  niggardly  fashion,  or  leave  it  to 
be  bestowed  altogether  by  posterity. 

This  last  fate  will  be  specially  reserved  for  works  of  a  high 
chara6ler.  For  the  happy  chance  mentioned  above  will  be  all 
the  more  certain  not  to  come,  in  proportion  as  there  are  few 
to  appreciate  the  kind  of  work  done  by  great  minds.  Herein 
lies  the  immeasurable  advantage  possessed  by  poets  in  respe<ft 
of  reputation  ;  because  their  work  is  accessible  to  almost  every 
one.  If  it  had  been  possible  for  Sir  Walter  Scott  to  be  read 
and  criticised  by  only  some  hundred  persons,  perhaps  in  his 


88  ,  THE   ART    OF    LITERATURE. 

life-time  any  common  scribbler  would  have  been  preferred  to 
him  ;  and  afterwards,  when  he  had  taken  his  proper  place,  it 
would  also  have  been  said  in  his  honor  that  he  was  in  advance 
of  his  age.  But  if  envy,  dishonesty  and  the  pursuit  of  personal 
aims  are  added  to  the  incapacity  of  those  hundred  persons  who, 
in  the  name  of  their  generation,  are  called  upon  to  pass  judg- 
ment on  a  work,  then  indeed  it  meets  with  the  same  sad  fate  as 
attends  a  suitor  who  pleads  before  a  tribunal  of  judges  one 
and  all  corrupt. 

In  corroboration  of  this,  we  find  that  the  history  of  literature 
generally  shows  all  those  who  made  knowledge  and  insight 
their  goal  to  have  remained  unrecognized  and  negledled,  whilst 
those  who  paraded  with  the  vain  show  of  it  received  the  admira- 
tion of  their  contemporaries,  together  with  the  emoluments. 

The  effe6liveness  of  an  author  turns  chiefly  upon  his  getting 
the  reputation  that  he  should  be  read.  But  by  pra6licing 
various  arts,  by  the  operation  of  chance,  and  by  certain  natural 
affinities,  this  reputation  is  quickly  won  by  a  hundred  worth- 
less people  :  while  a  worthy  writer  may  come  by  it  very  slowly 
and  tardily.  The  former  possess  friends  to  help  them  ;  for  the 
rabble  is  always  a  numerous  body  which  holds  well  together. 
The  latter  has  nothing  but  enemies  ;  because  intelledlual  supe- 
riority is  everywhere  and  under  all  circumstances  the  most 
hateful  thing  in  the  world,  and  especially  to  bunglers  in  the 
same  line  of  work,  who  want  to  pass  for  something  themselves.* 

This  being  so,  it  is  a  prime  condition  for  doing  any  great 

work — any  work  which  is  to  outlive  its  own  age,  that  a  man 

pay  no  heed  to  his  contemporaries,  their  views  and  opinions, 

and  the  praise  or  blame  which  they  bestow.     This  condition 

is,  however,  fulfilled  of  itself  when  a  man  really  does  anything 

great,  and  it  is  fortunate  that  it  is  so.     For  if,  in  producing 

such  a  work,  he  were  to  look  to  the  general  opinion  or  the 

judgment  of  his  colleagues,   they  would  lead  him  astray  at 

every  step.     Hence,  if  a  man  wants  to  go  down  to  posterity, 

'  If  the  professors  of  philosophy  should  chance  to  think  that  I  am 
here  hinting  at  them  and  the  tactics  they  have  for  more  than  thirty 
years  pursued  toward  my  works,  they  have  hit  the  nail  upon  the  head. 


ON    REPUTATION.  89 

he  must  withdraw  from  the  influence  of  his  own  age.  This 
will,  of  course,  generally  mean  that  he  must  also  renounce  any 
influence  upon  it,  and  be  ready  to  buy  centuries  of  fame  by 
foregoing  the  applause  of  his  contemporaries. 

For  when  any  new  and  wide-reaching  truth  comes  into  the 
world — and  if  it  is  new,  it  must  be  paradoxical — an  obstinate 
stand  will  be  made  against  it  as  long  as  possible ;  nay,  people 
will  continue  to  deny  it  even  after  they  slacken  their  opposition 
and  are  almost  convinced  of  its  truth.  Meanwhile  it  goes  on 
quietly  working  its  way,  and,  like  an  acid,  undermining  every- 
thing around  it.  From  time  to  time  a  crash  is  heard  ;  the  old 
error  comes  tottering  to  the  ground,  and  suddenly  the  new 
fabric  of  thought  stands  revealed,  as  though  it  were  a  monu- 
ment just  uncovered.  Everyone  recognizes  and  admires  it. 
To  be  sure,  this  all  comes  to  pass  for  the  most  part  very  slowly. 
As  a  rule,  people  discover  a  man  to  be  worth  listening  to  only 
after  he  is  gone  ;  their  hear,  hear !  resounds  when  the  orator 
has  left  the  platform. 

Works  of  the  ordinary  type  meet  with  a  better  fate.  Aris- 
ing as  they  do  in  the  course  of,  and  in  conne6tion  with,  the 
general  advance  in  contemporary  culture,  they  are  in  close 
alliance  with  the  spirit  of  their  age — in  other  words,  just  those 
opinions  which  happen  to  be  prevalent  at  the  time.  They  aim 
at  suiting  the  needs  of  the  moment.  If  they  have  any  merit, 
it  is  soon  recognized  ;  and  they  gain  currency  as  books  which 
refle6t  the  latest  ideas.  Justice,  nay,  more  than  justice,  is  done 
to  them.  They  afford  little  scope  for  envy  ;  since,  as  was  said 
above,  a  man  will  praise  a  thing  only  so  far  as  he  hopes  to  be 
able  to  imitate  it  himself 

But  those  rare  works  which  are  destined  to  become  the  prop- 
erty of  all  mankind  and  to  live  for  centuries,  are,  at  their  origin, 
too  far  in  advance  of  the  point  at  which  culture  happens  to 
stand,  and  on  that  very  account  foreign  to  it  and  the  spirit  of 
their  own  time.  They  neither  belong  to  it  nor  are  they  in  any 
connexion  with  it,  and  hence  they  excite  no  interest  in  those 
who  are  dominated  by  it.     They  belong  to  another,  a  higher 


90  THE   ART    OF   LITERATURE. 

Stage  of  culture,  and  a  time  that  is  still  far  off.  Their  course 
is  related  to  that  of  ordinary  works  as  the  orbit  of  Uranus  to 
the  orbit  of  Mercury.  For  the  moment  they  get  no  justice 
done  to  them.  People  are  at  a  loss  how  to  treat  them  ;  so  they 
leave  them  alone,  and  go  their  own  snail's  pace  for  themselves. 
Does  the  worm  see  the  eagle  as  it  soars  aloft  ? 

Of  the  number  of  books  written  in  any  language  about  one 
in  100,000  forms  a  part  of  its  real  and  permanent  literature. 
What  a  fate  this  one  book  has  to  endure  before  it  outstrips 
those  100,000  and  gains  its  due  place  of  honor  !  Such  a  book 
is  the  work  of  an  extraordinary  and  eminent  mind,  and  there- 
fore it  is  specifically  different  from  the  others  ;  a  fa6l  which 
sooner  or  later  becomes  manifest. 

Let  no  one  fancy  that  things  will  ever  improve  in  this  re- 
spect. No  !  the  miserable  constitution  of  humanity  never 
changes,  though  it  may,  to  be  sure,  take  somewhat  varying 
forms  with  every  generation.  A  distinguished  mind  seldom 
has  its  full  effeft  in  the  life-time  of  its  possessor  ;  because,  at 
bottom,  it  is  completely  and  properly  understood  only  by 
minds  already  akin  to  it. 

As  it  is  a  rare  thing  for  even  one  man  out  of  many  millions 
to  tread  the  path  that  leads  to  immortality,  he  must  of  neces- 
sity be  very  lonely.  The  journey  to  posterity  lies  through  a 
horribly  dreary  region,  like  the  Lybian  desert,  of  which,  as  is 
well-known,  no  one  has  any  idea  who  has  not  seen  it  for  him- 
self. Meanwhile  let  me  before  all  things  recommend  the 
traveler  to  take  light  baggage  with  him ;  otherwise  he  will 
have  to  throw  away  too  much  on  the  road.  Let  him  never  for- 
get the  words  of  Balthazar  Gracian  :  lo  bueno  si  breve,  dos 
vezes  bueno — good  work  is  doubly  good  if  it  is  short.  This 
advice  is  specially  applicable  to  my  own  countrymen. 

Compared  with  the  short  span  of  time  they  live,  men  of  great 
intellect  are  like  huge  buildings,  standing  on  a  small  plot  of 
ground.  The  size  of  the  building  cannot  be  seen  by  anyone, 
just  in  front  of  it  ;  nor,  for  an  analogous  reason,  can  the 
greatness  of  a  genius  be  estimated  while  he  lives.     But  when  a 


ON   REPUTATION.  9I 

century  has  passed,  the  world  recognizes  it  and  wishes  him 
back  again. 

If  the  perishable  son  of  time  has  produced  an  imperishable 
work,  how  short  his  own  life  seems  compared  with  that  of  his 
child  !  He  is  like  Semela  or  Maia — a  mortal  mother  who  gave 
birth  to  an  immortal  son  ;  or,  contrarily,  he  is  like  Achilles  in 
regard  to  Thetis.  What  a  contrast  there  is  between  what  is 
fleeting  and  what  is  permanent  !  The  short  span  of  a  man's 
life,  his  necessitous,  afflicted,  unstable  existence,  will  seldom 
allow  of  his  seeing  even  the  beginning  of  his  immortal  child's 
brilliant  career  ;  nor  will  the  father  himself  be  taken  for  that 
which  he  really  is.  It  may  be  said,  indeed,  that  a  man  whose 
fame  comes  after  him  is  the  reverse  of  a  nobleman,  who  is  pre- 
ceded by  it. 

However,  the  only  difference  that  it  ultimately  makes  to  a 
man  to  receive  his  fame  at  the  hands  of  contemporaries  rather 
than  from  posterity  is  that,  in  the  former  case,  his  admirers 
are  separated  from  him  by  space,  and  in  the  latter  by  time. 
For  even  in  the  case  of  contemporary  fame,  a  man  does  not, 
as  a  rule,  see  his  admirers  actually  before  him.  Reverence  can- 
not endure  close  proximity  ;  it  almost  always  dwells  at  some 
distance  from  its  obje6l: ;  and  in  the  presence  of  the  person 
revered  it  melts  like  butter  in  the  sun.  Accordingly,  if  a  man 
is  celebrated  with  his  contemporaries,  nine-tenths  of  those 
amongst  whom  he  lives  will  let  their  esteem  be  guided  by  his 
rank  and  fortune  ;  and  the  remaining  tenth  may  perhaps  have 
a  dull  consciousness  of  his  high  qualities,  because  they  have 
heard  about  him  from  remote  quarters.  There  is  a  fine  Latin 
letter  of  Petrarch's  on  this  incompatibility  between  reverence 
and  the  presence  of  the  person,  and  between  fame  and  life.  It 
comes  second  in  his  Epistolce  familiares ,^  and  it  is  addressed 
to  Thomas  Messanensis.  He  there  observes,  amongst  other 
things,  that  the  learned  men  of  his  age  all  made  it  a  rule  to 
think  little  of  a  man's  writings  if  they  had  even  once  seen  him. 

Since  distance,  then,  is  essential  if  a  famous  man  is  to  be 
"  In  the  Venetian  edition  of  1492. 


92  THE   ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

recognized  and  revered,  it  does  not  matter  whether  it  is  dis- 
tance of  space  or  of  time.  It  is  true  that  he  may  sometimes  hear 
of  his  fame  in  the  one  case,  but  never  m  the  other  ;  but  still, 
genuine  and  great  merit  may  make  up  for  this  by  confidently 
anticipating  its  posthumous  fame.  Nay,  he  who  produces 
some  really  great  thought  is  conscious  of  his  connexion  with 
coming  generations  at  the  very  moment  he  conceives  it ;  so 
that  he  feels  the  extension  of  his  existence  through  centuries 
and  thus  lives  with  posterity  as  well  2is/or  it.  And  when,  after 
enjoying  a  great  man's  work,  we  are  seized  with  admiration 
for  him,  and  wish  him  back,  so  that  we  might  see  and  speak 
with  him,  and  have  him  in  our  possession,  this  desire  of  ours 
is  not  unrequited  ;  for  he,  too,  has  had  his  longing  for  that 
posterity  which  will  grant  the  recognition,  honor,  gratitude 
and  love  denied  by  envious  contemporaries. 

If  intellectual  works  of  the  highest  order  are  not  allowed 
their  due  until  they  come  before  the  tribunal  of  posterity,  a 
contrary  fate  is  prepared  for  certain  brilliant  errors  which 
proceed  from  men  of  talent,  and  appear  with  an  air  of  being 
well  grounded.  These  errors  are  defended  with  so  much 
acumen  and  learning  that  they  actually  become  famous  with 
their  own  age,  and  maintain  their  position  at  least  during  their 
author's  lifetime.  Of  this  sort  are  many  false  theories  and 
wrong  criticisms  ;  also  poems  and  works  of  art,  which  exhibit 
some  false  taste  or  mannerism  favored  by  contemporary  prej- 
udice. They  gain  reputation  and  currency  simply  because  no 
one  is  yet  forthcoming  who  knows  how  to  refute  them  or  other- 
wise prove  their  falsity  ;  and  when  he  appears,  as  he  usually 
does,  in  the  next  generation,  the  glory  of  these  works  is  brought 
to  an  end.  Posthumous  judges,  be  their  decision  favorable  to 
the  appellant  or  not,  form  the  proper  court  for  quashing  the 
verdict  of  contemporaries.  That  is  why  it  is  so  difficult  and  so 
rare  to  be  victorious  alike  in  both  tribunals. 

The  unfailing  tendency  of  time  to  correct  knowledge  and 
judgment  should  always  be  kept  in  view  as  a  means  of  allaying 
anxiety,  whenever  any  grievous  error  appears,  whether  in  art, 


ON    REPUTATION.  93 

or  science,  or  practical  life,  and  gains  ground  ;  or  when  some 
false  and  thoroughly  perverse  policy  or  movement  is  under- 
taken and  receives  applause  at  the  hands  of  men.  No  one 
should  be  angry,  or,  still  less,  despondent ;  but  simply  imagine 
that  the  world  has  already  abandoned  the  error  in  question, 
and  now  only  requires  time  and  experience  to  recognize  of  its 
own  accord  that  which  a  clear  vision  detected  at  the  first 
glance. 

When  the  facts  themselves  are  eloquent  of  a  truth,  there  is 
no  need  to  rush  to  its  aid  with  words  :  for  time  will  give  it  a 
thousand  tongues.  How  long  it  may  be  before  they  speak, 
will  of  course  depend  upon  the  difficulty  of  the  subje6l  and  the 
plausibility  of  the  error  ;  but  come  they  will,  and  often  it  would 
be  of  no  avail  to  try  to  anticipate  them.  In  the  worst  cases  it 
will  happen  with  theories  as  it  happens  with  affairs  in  practical 
life  ;  where  sham  and  deception,  emboldened  by  success,  ad- 
vance to  greater  and  greater  lengths,  until  discovery  is  made 
almost  inevitable.  It  is  just  so  with  theories  :  through  the 
blind  confidence  of  the  blockheads  who  broach  them,  their 
absurdity  reaches  such  a  pitch  that  at  last  it  is  obvious  even  to 
the  dullest  eye.  We  may  thus  say  to  such  people  :  the  wilder 
your  statements,  the  better. 

There  is  also  some  comfort  to  be  found  in  reflecting  upon 
all  the  whims  and  crotchets  which  had  their  day  and  have  now 
utterly  vanished.  In  style,  in  grammar,  in  spelling,  there  are 
false  notions  of  this  sort  which  last  only  three  or  four  years. 
But  when  the  errors  are  on  a  large  scale,  while  we  lament  the 
brevity  of  human  life,  we  shall  in  any  case,  do  well  to  lag  be- 
hind our  own  age  when  we  see  it  on  a  downward  path.  For 
there  are  two  ways  of  not  keeping  on  a  level  with  the  times. 
A  man  may  be  below  it ;  or  he  may  be  above  it. 


ON  GENIUS. 

No  difference  of  rank,  position,  or  birth,  is  so  great  as  the 
gulf  that  separates  the  countless  millions  who  use  their 
head  only  in  the  service  of  their  belly,  in  other  words,  look 
upon  it  as  an  instrument  of  the  will,  and  those  very  few  and 
rare  persons  who  have  the  courage  to  say  :  No  !  it  is  too  good 
for  that  ;  my  head  shall  be  adlive  only  in  its  own  service ;  it 
shall  try  to  comprehend  the  wondrous  and  varied  spe6lacle  of 
this  world,  and  then  reproduce  it  in  some  form,  whether  as  art 
or  as  literature,  that  may  answer  to  my  charafter  as  an  individ- 
ual. These  are  the  truly  noble,  the  real  noblesse  of  the  world. 
The  others  are  serfs  and  go  with  the  soil — glebes  adscripti.  Of 
course,  I  am  here  referring  to  those  who  have  not  only  the 
courage,  but  also  the  call,  and  therefore  the  right,  to  order  the  . 
head  to  quit  the  service  of  the  will ;  with  a  result  that  proves 
the  sacrifice  to  have  been  worth  the  making.  In  the  case  of 
those  to  whom  all  this  can  only  partially  apply,  the  gulf  is  not 
so  wide  ;  but  even  though  their  talent  be  small,  so  long  as  it  is 
real,  there  will  always  be  a  sharp  line  of  demarcation  between 
them  and  the  millions.^ 

1  The  corre<5l  scale  for  adjusting  the  hierarchy  of  intelligences  is 
furnished  by  the  degree  in  which  the  mind  takes  merely  individual  or 
approaches  universal  views  of  things.  The  brute  recognizes  only  the 
individual  as  such  :  its  comprehension  does  not  extend  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  individual.  But  man  reduces  the  individual  to  the  gener- 
al ;  herein  lies  the  exercise  of  his  reason  ;  and  the  higher  his  intelli- 
gence reaches,  the  nearer  do  his  general  ideas  approach  the  point  at 
which  they  become  universal.  If  his  grasp  of  the  universal  is  so  deep 
as  to  be  intuitive,  and  to  apply  not  only  to  general  ideas,  but  to  an  in- 
dividual obje<5l  by  itself,  then  there  arises  a  knowledge  of  the  Ideas  in 
the  sense  used  by  Plato.  This  knowledge  is  of  an  aesthetic  character ; 
when  it  is  self-a<5iive,  it  rises  to  genius,  and  reaches  the  highest  degree 
of  intensity  when  it  becomes  philosophic  :  for  then  the  whole  oi  life 

(94^ 


ON   GENIUS.  95 

The  works  of  fine  art,  poetry  and  philosophy  produced  by 
a  nation  are  the  outcome  of  the  superfluous  intelle6l  existing 
in  it. 

For  him  who  can  understand  aright — cum  grano  salts — the 
relation  between  the  genius  and  the  normal  man  may,  perhaps, 
be  best  expressed  as  follows  :  A  genius  has  a  double  intelle(5l, 
one  for  himself  and  the  service  of  his  will ;  the  other  for  the 
world,  of  which  he  becomes  the  mirror,  in  virtue  of  his  purely 
obje6live  attitude  towards  it.  The  work  of  art  or  poetry  or 
philosophy  produced  by  the  genius  is  simply  the  result,  or 
quintessence,  of  this  contemplative  attitude,  elaborated  accord- 
ing to  certain  technical  rules. 

The  normal  man,  on  the  other  hand,  has  only  a  single 
intelle6t,  which  may  be  called  subjeSlive  by  contrast  with  the 
objeHive  intelle6l  of  genius.  However  acute  this  subjective 
intelle6l  may  be — and  it  exists  in  very  various  degrees  of  per- 
fection— it  is  never  on  the  same  level  with  the  double  intelleft 
of  genius  ;  just  as  the  open  chest  notes  of  the  human  voice, 
however  high,  are  essentially  different  from  the  falsetto  notes. 
These,  like  the  two  upper  octaves  of  the  flute  and  the  harmonics 
of  the  violin,  are  produced  by  the  column  of  air  dividing  itself 
into  two  vibrating  halves,  with  a  node  between,  them  ;  while  the 
open  chest  notes  of  the  human  voice  and  the  lower  o6lave  of 
the  flute  are  produced  by  the  undivided  column  of  air  vibrat- 
ing as  a  whole.  This  illustration  may  help  the  reader  to 
understand  that  specific  peculiarity  of  genius  which  is  unmis- 
takably stamped  on  the  works,  and  even  on  the  physiognomy, 
of  him  who  is  gifted  with  it.  At  the  same  time  it  is  obvious 
that  a  double  intelle6l  like  this  must,  as  a  rule,  obstru6l  the 
service  of  the  will ;  and  this  explains  the  poor  capacity  often 
shown  by  genius  in  the  condu(5t  of  life.  And  what  specially 
chara6lerizes  genius  is  that  it  has  none  of  that  sobriety  of 

and  existence  as  it  passes  away,  the  world  and  all  it  contains,  are 
grasped  in  their  true  nature  by  an  ad  of  intuition,  and  appear  in  a  form 
which  forces  itself  upon  consciousness  as  an  object  of  meditation. 
Here  reflection  attains  its  highest  point.  Between  it  and  the  merely 
animal  perception  there  are  countless  stages,  which  differ  according  to 
the  approach  made  to  a  universal  view  of  things. 


96  THE   ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

temper  which  is  always  to  be  found  in  the  ordinary  simple  in- 
telled,  be  it  acute  or  dull. 

The  brain  may  be  likened  to  a  parasite  which  is  nourished 
as  a  part  of  the  human  frame  without  contributing  dire6Hy  to 
its  inner  economy  ;  it  is  securely  housed  in  the  topmost  story, 
and  there  leads  a  self-sufficient  and  independent  life.  In  the 
same  way  it  may  be  said  that  a  man  endowed  with  great  men- 
tal gifts  leads,  apart  from  the  individual  life  common  to  all,  a 
second  life,  purely  of  the  intellect.  He  devotes  himself  to  the 
constant  increase,  rectification  and  extension,  not  of  mere  learn- 
ing, but  of  real  systematic  knowledge  and  insight ;  and  remains 
untouched  by  the  fate  that  overtakes  him  personally,  so  long 
as  it  does  not  disturb  him  in  his  work.  It  is  thus  a  life  which 
raises  a  man  and  sets  him  above  fate  and  its  changes.  Always 
thinking,  learning,  experimenting,  pradicing  his  knowledge, 
the  man  soon  comes  to  look  upon  this  second  life  as  the  chief 
mode  of  existence,  and  his  merely  personal  life  as  something 
subordinate,  serving  only  to  advance  ends  higher  than  itself. 

An  example  of  this  independent,  separate  existence  is  jfiir- 
nished  by  Goethe.  During  the  war  in  the  Champagne,  and 
amid  all  the  bustle  of  the  camp,  he  made  observations  for  his 
theory  of  color  ;  and  as  soon  as  the  numberless  calamities  of 
that  war  allowed  of  his  retiring  for  a  short  time  to  the  fortress 
of  Luxembourg,  he  took  up  the  manuscript  of  his  Farbenlehre. 
This  is  an  example  which  we,  the  salt  of  the  earth,  should  en- 
deavor to  follow,  by  never  letting  anything  disturb  us  in  the 
pursuit  of  our  intelle6lual  life,  however  much  the  storm  of  the 
world  may  invade  and  agitate  our  personal  environment  ; 
always  remembering  that  we  are  the  sons,  not  of  the  bond- 
woman, but  of  the  free.  As  our  emblem  and  coat  of  arms,  I 
propose  a  tree  mightily  shaken  by  the  wind,  but  still  bearing 
its  ruddy  fruit  on  every  branch  ;  with  the  motto  Dutn  convellor 
tnitescunt,  or  Conquassaia  sed  ferax. 

That  purely  intellectual  life  of  the  individual  has  its  counter- 
part in  humanity  as  a  whole.  For  there,  too,  the  real  life  is 
the  life  of  the  will,  both  in  the  empirical  and  in  the  transcend- 


ON  GENIUS.  97 

ental  meaning  of  the  word.  The  purely  intelledlual  life  of 
humanity  lies  in  its  effort  to  increase  knowledge  by  means  of 
the  sciences,  and  its  desire  to  perfect  the  arts.  Both  science 
and  art  thus  advance  slowly  from  one  generation  to  another, 
and  grow  with  the  centuries,  every  race  as  it  hurries  by  furnish- 
ing its  contribution.  This  intelledlual  life,  like  some  gift  from 
heaven,  hovers  over  the  stir  and  movement  of  the  world  ;  or 
it  is,  as  it  were,  a  sweet-scented  air  developed  out  of  the  fer- 
ment itself — the  real  life  of  mankind,  dominated  by  will  ;  and 
side  by  side  with  the  history  of  nations,  the  history  of  philoso- 
phy, science  and  art  takes  its  innocent  and  bloodless  way. 

The  difference  between  the  genius  and  the  ordinary  man  is, 
no  doubt,  a  quantitative  one,  in  so  far  as  it  is  a  difference  of 
degree  ;  but  I  am  tempted  to  regard  it  also  as  qualitative,  in 
view  of  the  fa6l  that  ordinary  minds,  notwithstanding  individual 
variation,  have  a  certain  tendency  to  think  alike.  Thus  on 
similar  occasions  their  thoughts  at  once  all  take  a  similar  direc- 
tion, and  run  on  the  same  lines  ;  and  this  explains  why  their 
judgments  constantly  agree — not,  however,  because  they  are 
based  on  truth.  To  such  lengths  does  this  go  that  certain 
fundamental  views  obtain  among,st  mankind  at  all  times,  and 
are  always  being  repeated  and  brought  forward  anew,  whilst 
the  great  minds  of  all  ages  are  in  open  or  secret  opposition 
to  them. 

A  genius  is  a  man  in  whose  mind  the  world  is  presented  as 
an  obje6l  is  presented  in  a  mirror,  but  with  a  degree  more  of 
clearness  and  a  greater  distin6lion  of  outline  than  is  attained 
by  ordinary  people.  It  is  from  him  that  humanity  may  look 
for  most  instrudlion  ;  for  the  deepest  insight  into  the  most  im- 
portant matters  is  to  be  acquired,  notjby  an  observant  attention 
to  detail,  but  by  a  close  study  of  things  as  a  whole.  And  if  his 
mind  reaches  maturity,  the  instruAion  he  gives  will  be  convey- 
ed now  in  one  form,  now  in  another.  Thus  genius  may  be  de- 
fined as  an  eminently  clear  consciousness  of  things  in  general, 
and  therefore,  also  of  that  which  is  opposed  to  them,  namely, 
one's  own  self. 


98  THE  ART  OF   LITERATURE. 

The  world  looks  up  to  a  man  thus  endowed,  and  expedls  to 
learn  something  about  life  and  its  real  nature.  But  several 
highly  favorable  circumstances  must  combine  to  produce  gen- 
ius, and  this  is  a  very  rare  event.  It  happens  only  now  and 
then,  let  us  say  once  in  a  century,  that  a  man  is  born  whose 
intellect  so  perceptibly  surpasses  the  normal  measure  as  to 
amount  to  that  second  faculty  which  seems  to  be  accidental,  as 
it  is  out  of  all  relation  to  the  will.  He  may  remain  a  long  time 
without  being  recognized  or  appreciated,  stupidity  preventing 
the  one  and  envy  the  other.  But  should  this  once  come  to 
pass,  mankind  will  crowd  round  him  and  his  works,  in  the  hope 
that  he  may  be  able  to  enlighten  some  of  the  darkness  of  their 
existence  or  inform  them  about  it.  His  message  is,  to  some 
extent,  a  revelation,  and  he  himself  a  higher  being,  even 
though  he  may  be  but  little  above  the  ordinary  standard. 

Like  the  ordinary  man,  the  genius  is  what  he  is  chiefly  for 
himself.  This  is  essential  to  his  nature  :  a  fa6i  which  can 
neither  be  avoided  nor  altered.  What  he  may  be  for  others 
remains  a  matter  of  chance  and  of  secondary  importance.  In 
no  case  can  people  receive  from  his  mind  more  than  a  reflec- 
tion, and  then  only  when  he  joins  with  them  in  the  attempt  to 
get  his  thought  into  their  heads  ;  where,  however,  it  is  never 
anything  but  an  exotic  plant,  stunted  and  frail. 

In  order  to  have  original,  uncommon,  and  perhaps  even  im- 
mortal thoughts,  it  is  enough  to  estrange  oneself  so  fully  from 
the  world  of  things  for  a  few  moments,  that  the  most  ordinary 
objects  and  events  appear  quite  new  and  unfamiliar.  In  this 
way  their  true  nature  is  disclosed.  What  is  here  demanded 
cannot,  perhaps,  be  said  to  be  difficult ;  it  is  not  in  our  power 
at  all,  but  is  just  the  province  of  genius. 

By  itself,  genius  can  produce  original  thoughts  just  as  little 
as  a  woman  by  herself  can  bear  children.  Outward  circum- 
stances must  come  to  frudify  genius,  and  be,  as  it  were, 
a  father  to  its  progeny. 

The  mind  of  genius  is  among  other  minds  what  the  carbuncle 
is  among  precious  stones  :  it  sends  forth  light  of  its  own,  while 


ON  GENIUS.  99 

the  others  refle6l  only  that  which  they  have  received.  The 
relation  of  the  genius  to  the  ordinary  mind  may  also  be  described 
as  that  of  an  idio-ele<5lrical  body  to  one  which  merely  is  a  con- 
du6lor  of  ele6lricity . 

The  mere  man  of  learning,  who  spends  his  life  in  teaching 
what  he  has  learned,  is  not  stri6Uy  to  be  called  a  man  of  genius  ; 
just  as  idio-electrical  bodies  are  not  conduAors.  Nay,  genius 
stands  to  mere  learning  as  the  words  to  the  music  in  a  song. 
A  man  of  learning  is  a  man  who  has  learned  a  great  deal ;  a 
man  of  genius,  one  from  whom  we  learn  something  which  the 
genius  has  learned  from  nobody.  Great  minds,  of  which  there 
is  scarcely  one  in  a  hundred  millions,  are  thus  the  lighthouses 
of  humanity ;  and  without  them  mankind  would  lose  itself  in 
the  boundless  sea  of  monstrous  error  and  bewilderment. 

And  so  the  simple  man  of  learning,  in  the  stri6l  sense  of  the 
word — the  ordinary  professor,  for  instance — looks  upon  the 
genius  much  as  we  look  upon  a  hare,  which  is  good  to  eat 
after  it  has  been  killed  and  dressed  up.  So  long  as  it  is  alive, 
it  is  only  good  to  shoot  at. 

He  who  wishes  to  experience  gratitude  from  his  contempora- 
ries, must  adjust  his  pace  to  theirs.  But  great  things  are  never 
produced  in  this  way.  And  he  who  wants  to  do  great  things 
must  diredl  his  gaze  to  posterity,  and  in  firm  confidence  elabo- 
rate his  work  for  coming  generations.  No  doubt,  the  result 
may  be  that  he  will  remain  quite  unknown  to  his  contempora- 
ries, and  comparable  to  a  man  who,  compelled  to  spend  his  life 
upon  a  lonely  island,  with  great  effort  sets  up  a  monument 
there,  to  transmit  to  future  sea-farers  the  knowledge  of  his  ex- 
istence. If  he  thinks  it  a  hard  fate,  let  him  console  himself 
with  the  reflection  that  the  ordinary  man  who  lives  for  praAical 
aims  only,  often  suffers  a  like  fate,  without  having  any  com- 
pensation to  hope  for ;  inasmuch  as  he  may,  under  favorable 
conditions,  spend  a  life  of  material  produftion,  earning,  buy- 
ing, building,  fertilizing,  laying  out,  founding,  establishing, 
beautifying,  with  daily  effort  and  unflagging  zeal,  and  all  the 
time  think  that  he  is  working  for  himself ;  and  yet  in  the  end 


lOO  THE  ART  OF  LITERATURE. 

it  is  his  descendants  who  reap  the  benefit  of  it  all,  and  some- 
times not  even  his  descendants.  It  is  the  same  with  the  man 
of  genius  ;  he,  too,  hopes  for  his  reward  and  for  honor  at 
least  ;  and  at  last  finds  that  he  has  worked  for  posterity  alone. 
Both,  to  be  sure,  have  inherited  a  great  deal  from  their 
ancestors. 

The  compensation  I  have  mentioned  as  the  privilege  of  gen- 
ius lies,  not  in  what  it  is  to  others,  but  in  what  it  is  to  itself. 
What  man  has  in  any  real  sense  lived  more  than  he  whose 
moments  of  thought  make  their  echoes  heard  through  the 
tumult  of  centuries?  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  would  be  the  best 
thing  for  a  genius  to  attain  undisturbed  possession  of  himself, 
by  spending  his  life  in  enjoying  the  pleasure  of  his  own 
thoughts,  his  own  works,  and  by  admitting  the  world  only  as 
the  heir  of  his  ample  existence.  Then  the  world  would  find  the 
mark  of  his  existence  only  after  his  death,  as  it  finds  that  of 
the  Ichnolith.' 

It  is  not  only  in  the  a6livity  of  his  highest  powers  that  the 
genius  surpasses  ordinary  people.  A  man  who  is  unusually  well- 
knit,  supple  and  agile,  will  perform  all  his  movements  with 
exceptional  ease,  even  with  comfort,  because  he  takes  a  direft 
pleasure  in  an  activity  for  which  he  is  particularly  well-equip- 
ped, and  therefore  often  exercises  it  without  any  obje6l.  Fur- 
ther, if  he  is  an  acrobat  or  a  dancer,  not  only  does  he  take  leaps 
which  other  people  cannot  execute,  but  he  also  betrays  rare 
elasticity  and  agility  in  those  easier  steps  which  others  can  also 
perform,  and  even  in  ordinary  walking.  In  the  same  way  a 
man  of  superior  mind  will  not  only  produce  thoughts  and 
works  which  could  never  have  come  from  another  ;  it  will  not 
be  here  alone  that  he  will  show  his  greatness  ;  but  as  knowl- 
edge and  thought  form  a  mode  of  adlivity  natural  and  easy  to 
him,  he  will  also  delight  himself  in  them  at  all  times,  and  so 
apprehend  small  matters  which  are  within  the  range  of  other 
minds,  more  easily,  quickly  and  correctly  than  they.     Thus  he 

'  Translator' s  Note. — For  an  illustration  of  this  feeling  in  poetry, 
Schopenhauer  refers  the  reader  to  Byron's  Prophecy  of  Dante: 
introd.  to  C.  4. 


ON    GENIUS.  lOI 

will  take  a  dire6land  lively  pleasure  in  every  increase  ol  knowl- 
edge, every  problem  solved,  every  witty  thought,  whether  of 
his  own  or  another's  ;  and  so  his  mind  will  have  no  further 
aim  than  to  be  constantly  aftive.  This  will  be  an  inexhaustible 
spring  of  delight ;  and  boredom,  that  spectre  which  haunts  the 
ordinary  man,  can  never  come  near  him. 

Then,  too,  the  masterpieces  of  past  and  contemporary  men 
of  genius  exist  in  their  fullness  for  him  alone.  If  a  great 
produ6l  of  genius  is  recommended  to  the  ordinary,  simple 
mind,  it  will  take  as  much  pleasure  in  it  as  the  vi(5lim  of  gout 
receives  in  being  invited  to  a  ball.  The  one  goes  for  the  sake 
of  formality,  and  the  other  reads  the  book  so  as  not  to  be  in 
arrear.  For  La  Bruyere  was  quite  right  when  he  said  :  All 
the  wit  in  the  world  is  lost  upon  him  who  has  none.  The  whole 
range  of  thought  of  a  man  of  talent,  or  of  a  genius,  compared 
with  the  thoughts  of  the  common  man,  is,  even  when  dire6led 
to  objedls  essentially  the  same,  like  a  brilliant  oil-painting,  full 
of  life,  compared  with  a  mere  outline  or  a  weak  sketch  in 
water-color. 

All  this  is  part  of  the  reward  of  genius,  and  compensates  him 
for  a  lonely  existence  in  a  world  with  which  he  has  nothing  in 
common  and  no  sympathies.  But  since  size  is  relative,  it 
comes  to  the  same  thing  whether  I  say,  Caius  was  a  great  man, 
or  Caius  has  to  live  amongst  wretchedly  small  people  :  for 
Brobdingnack  and  Lilliput  vary  only  in  the  point  from  which 
they  start.  However  great,  then,  however  admirable  or  in- 
structive, a  long  posterity  may  think  the  author  of  immortal 
works,  during  his  lifetime  he  will  appear  to  his  contemporaries 
small,  wretched,  and  insipid  in  proportion.  This  is  what  I 
mean  by  saying  that  as  there  are  three  hundred  degrees  from 
the  base  of  a  tower  to  the  summit,  so  there  are  exadlly  three 
hundred  from  the  summit  to  the  base.  Great  minds  thus  owe 
little  ones  some  indulgence  ;  for  it  is  only  in  virtue  of  these 
little  minds  that  they  themselves  are  great. 

Let  us,  then,  not  be  surprised  if  we  find  men  of  genius  gener- 
ally unsociable  and  repellent.  It  is  not  their  want  of  sociability 
that  is  to  blame.     Their  path  through  the  world  is  like  that  of 


I02  THE   ART   OF   LITERATURE. 

a  man  who  goes  for  a  walk  on  a  bright  summer  morning.  He 
gazes  with  delight  on  the  beauty  and  freshness  of  nature,  but 
he  has  to  rely  wholly  on  that  for  entertainment ;  for  he  can 
find  no  society  but  the  peasants  as  they  bend  over  the  earth 
and  cultivate  the  soil.  It  is  often  the  case  that  a  great  mind 
prefers  soliloquy  to  the  dialogue  he  may  have  in  this  world. 
If  he  condescends  to  it  now  and  then,  the  hollowness  of  it  may 
possibly  drive  him  back  to  his  soliloquy  ;  for  in  forgetfulness 
of  his  interlocutor,  or  caring  little  whether  he  understands  or 
not,  he  talks  to  him  as  a  child  talks  to  a  doll. 

Modesty  in  a  great  mind  would,  no  doubt,  be  pleasing  to 
the  world  ;  but,  unluckily,  it  is  a  contradinio  in  adje£lo.  It 
would  compel  a  genius  to  give  the  thoughts  and  opinions,  nay, 
even  the  method  and  style,  of  the  million  preference  over  his 
own  ;  to  set  a  higher  value  upon  them  ;  and,  wide  apart  as 
they  are,  to  bring  his  views  into  harmony  with  theirs,  or  even 
suppress  them  altogether,  so  as  to  let  the  others  hold  the  field. 
In  that  case,  however,  he  would  either  produce  nothing  at  all, 
or  else  his  achievements  would  be  just  upon  a  level  with  theirs. 
Great,  genuine  and  extraordinary  work  can  be  done  only  in  so  far 
as  its  author  disregards  the  method,  the  thoughts,  the  opinions 
of  his  contemporaries,  and  quietly  works  on,  in  spite  of  their 
criticism,  on  his  side  despising  what  they  praise.  No  one  be- 
comes great  without  arrogance  of  this  sort.  Should  his  life 
and  work  fall  upon  a  time  which  cannot  recognize  and  appre- 
ciate him,  he  is  at  any  rate  true  to  himself ;  like  some  noble 
traveler  forced  to  pass  the  night  in  a  miserable  inn  ;  when 
morning  comes,  he  contentedly  goes  his  way. 

A  poet  or  philosopher  should  have  no  fault  to  find  with  his 
age  if  it  only  permits  him  to  do  his  work  undisturbed  in  his 
own  corner  ;  nor  with  his  fate  if  the  corner  granted  him  allows 
of  his  following  his  vocation  without  having  to  think  about 
other  people. 

For  the  brain  to  be  a  mere  laborer  in  the  service  of  the  belly, 
is  indeed  the  common  lot  of  almost  all  those  who  do  not  live 
on  the  work  of  their  hands  ;  and  they  are  far  from  being  dis- 


ON    GENIUS.  103 

contented  with  their  lot.  But  it  strikes  despair  into  a  man  of 
great  mind,  whose  brain-power  goes  beyond  the  measure  nec- 
essary for  the  service  of  the  will  ;  and  he  prefers,  if  need  be,  to 
live  in  the  narrowest  circumstances,  so  long  as  they  afford  him 
the  free  use  of  his  time  for  the  development  and  application  of 
his  faculties  ;  in  other  words,  if  they  give  him  the  leisure  which 
is  invaluable  to  him. 

It  is  otherwise  with  ordinary  people  :  for  them  leisure  has 
no  value  in  itself,  nor  is  it,  indeed,  without  its  dangers,  as  these 
people  seem  to  know.  The  technical  work  of  our  time,  which 
is  done  to  an  unprecedented  perfection,  has,  by  increasing 
and  multiplying  obje6ls  of  luxury,  given  the  favorites  of  fortune 
a  choice  between  more  leisure  and  culture  upon  the  one  side, 
and  additional  luxury  and  good  living,  but  with  increased 
activity,  upon  the  other  ;  and,  true  to  their  chara<5ler,  they 
choose  the  latter,  and  prefer  champagne  to  freedom.  And 
they  are  consistent  in  their  choice  ;  for,  to  them,  every  exertion 
of  the  mind  which  does  not  serve  the  aims  of  the  will  is  folly. 
Intellectual  effort  for  its  own  sake,  they  call  eccentricity. 
Therefore,  persistence  in  the  aims  of  the  will  and  the  belly  will 
be  concentricity  ;  and,  to  be  sure,  the  will  is  the  centre,  the 
kernel  of  the  world. 

But  in  general  it  is  very  seldom  that  any  such  alternative  is 
presented.  For  as  with  money,  most  men  have  no  superfluity, 
but  only  just  enough  for  their  needs,  so  with  intelligence  ;  they 
possess  just  what  will  suffice  for  the  service  of  the  will,  that  is, 
for  the  carrying  on  of  their  business.  Having  made  their 
fortune,  they  are  content  to  gape  or  to  indulge  in  sensual 
pleasures  or  childish  amusements,  cards  or  dice  ;  or  they  will 
talk  in  the  dullest  way,  or  dress  up  and  make  obeisance  to  one 
another.  And  how  few  are  those  who  have  even  a  little  super 
fluity  of  intellectual  power  !  Like  the  others  they  too  make 
themselves  a  pleasure  ;  but  it  is  a  pleasure  of  the  intellect. 
Either  they  will  pursue  some  liberal  study  which  brings  them 
in  nothing,  or  they  will  practice  some  art  ;  and  in  general, 
they  will  be  capable  of  taking  an  objective  interest  in  things. 


I04  THE  ART  OF  LITERATURE. 

SO  that  it  will  be  possible  to  converse  with  them.  But  with  the 
others  it  is  better  not  to  enter  into  any  relations  at  all  ;  for, 
except  when  they  tell  the  results  of  their  own  experience  or 
g^ive  an  account  of  their  special  vocation,  or  at  any  rate  impart 
what  they  have  learned  from  some  one  else,  their  conversation 
will  not  be  worth  listening  to  ;  and  if  anything  is  said  to  them, 
they  will  rarely  grasp  or  understand  it  aright,  and  it  will  in 
most  cases  be  opposed  to  their  own  opinions.  Balthazar 
Gracian  describes  them  very  strikingly  as  men  who  are  not 
men — hombres  che  non  lo  son.  And  Giordano  Bruno  says  the 
same  thing  :  What  a  difference  there  is  in  having  to  do  with 
men  compared  with  those  who  are  only  made  in  their  image  and 
likeness/^  And  how  wonderfully  this  passage  agrees  with 
that  remark  in  the  Kurral :  The  common  people  look  like  men 
but  I  have  never  seen  anything  quite  like  them.  If  the  reader 
will  consider  the  extent  to  which  these  ideas  agree  in  thought 
and  even  in  expression,  and  the  wide  difference  between  them 
in  point  of  date  and  nationality,  he  cannot  doubt  but  that  they 
are  at  one  with  the  facts  of  life.  It  was  certainly  not  under  the 
influence  of  those  passages  that,  about  twenty  years  ago,  I 
tried  to  get  a  snuff-box  made,  the  lid  of  which  should  have 
two  fine  chestnuts  represented  upon  it,  if  possible  in  mosaic ; 
together  with  a  leaf  which  was  to  show  that  they  were  horse- 
chestnuts.  This  symbol  was  meant  to  keep  the  thought  con- 
stantly before  my  mind.  If  anyone  wishes  for  entertainment, 
such  as  will  prevent  him  feeling  solitary  even  when  he  is  alone, 
let  me  recommend  the  company  of  dogs,  whose  moral  and 
intellectual  qualities  may  almost  always  afford  delight  and 
gratification. 

Still,  we  should  always  be  careful  to  avoid  being  unjust.  I 
am  often  surprised  by  the  cleverness,  and  now  and  again  by 
the  stupidity,  of  my  dog  ;  and  I  have  similar  experiences  with 
mankind.  Countless  times,  in  indignation  at  their  incapacity, 
their  total  lack  of  discernment,  their  bestiality,  I  have  been 
forced  to  echo  the  old  complaint  that  folly  is  the  mother  and 
the  nurse  of  the  human  race  : — 

'  Opera :  ed.  Wagner,  I.  224. 


ON    GENIUS.  105 

Humani  generis  mater  nutrixque  profeHo 
Stultilia  est. 

But  at  other  times  I  have  been  astounded  that  from  such  a 
race  there  could  have  gone  forth  so  many  arts  and  sciences, 
abounding  in  so  much  use  and  beauty,  even  though  it  has  al- 
ways been  the  few  that  produce  them.  Yet  these  arts  and 
sciences  have  struck  root,  established  and  perfected  them- 
selves :  and  the  race  has  with  persistent  fidelity  preserved 
Homer,  Plato,  Horace  and  others  for  thousands  of  years,  by 
copying  and  treasuring  their  writings,  thus  saving  them  from 
oblivion,  in  spite  of  all  the  evils  and  atrocities  that  have  happened 
in  the  world.  Thus  the  race  has  proved  that  it  appreciates  the 
value  of  these  things,  and  at  the  same  tir«e  it  can  form  a  cor- 
rect view  of  special  achievements  or  estimate  signs  of  judgment 
and  intelligence.  When  this  takes  place  amongst  those  who 
belong  to  the  great  multitude,  it  is  by  a  kind  of  inspiration. 
Sometimes  a  corre6l  opinion  will  be  formed  by  the  multitude 
itself;  but  this  is  only  when  the  chorus  of  praise  has  grown 
full  and  complete.  It  is  then  like  the  sound  of  untrained 
voices  ;  where  there  are  enough  of  them,  it  is  always  har- 
monious. 

Those  who  emerge  from  the  multitude,  those  who  are  called 
men  of  genius,  are  merely  the  lucida  intervalla  of  the  whole 
human  race.  They  achieve  that  which  others  could  not  pos- 
sibly achieve.  Their  originality  is  so  great  that  not  only  is 
their  divergence  from  others  obvious,  but  their  individuality 
is  expressed  with  such  force,  that  all  the  men  of  genius  who 
have  ever  existed  show,  everyone  of  them,  peculiarities  of 
character  and  mind  ;  so  that  the  gift  of  his  works  is  one 
which  he  alone  of  all  men  could  ever  have  presented  to  the 
world.  This  is  what  makes  that  simile  of  Ariosto's  so  true 
and  so  justly  celebrated  :  Natura  lofece  e poi  ruppe  lo  siampo. 
After  Nature  stamps  a  man  of  genius,  she  breaks  the  die. 

But  there  is  always  a  limit  to  human  capacity  ;  and  no  one 
can  be  a  great  genius  without  having  some  decidedly  weak 
side,  it  may  even  be,  some  intellectual  narrowness.  In  other 
words,  there  will  be  some  faculty  in  which  he  is  now  and  then 


I06  THE  ART  OF  LITERATURE. 

inferior  to  men  of  moderate  endowments.  It  will  be  a  faculty 
which,  if  strong,  might  have  been  an  obstacle  to  the  exercise 
of  the  qualities  in  which  he  excels.  What  this  weak  point  is, 
it  will  always  be  hard  to  define  with  any  accuracy  even  in  a 
given  case.  It  maybe  better  expressed  indirectly  ;  thus  Plato's 
weak  point  is  exactly  that  in  which  Aristotle  is  strong,  and 
vice  versa;  and  so,  too,  Kant  is  deficient  just  where  Goethe 
is  great. 

Now,  mankind  is  fond  of  venerating  something  ;  but  its 
veneration  is  generally  directed  to  the  wrong  obje6l,  and  it 
remains  so  directed  until  posterity  comes  to  set  it  right.  But 
the  educated  public  is  no  sooner  set  right  in  this,  than  the 
honor  which  is  due  to  genius  degenerates ;  just  as  the  honor 
which  the  faithful  pay  to  their  saints  easily  passes  into  a  frivo- 
lous worship  of  relics.  Thousands  of  Christians  adore  the 
relics  of  a  saint  whose  life  and  doctrine  are  unknown  to  them  ; 
and  the  religion  of  thousands  of  Buddhists  lies  more  in  venera- 
tion of  the  Holy  Tooth  or  some  such  object,  or  the  vessel  that 
contains  it,  or  the  Holy  Bowl,  or  the  fossil  footstep,  or  the  Holy 
Tree  which  Buddha  planted,  than  in  the  thorough  knowledge 
and  faithful  practice  of  his  high  teaching.  Petrarch's  house  in 
Arqua ;  Tasso's  supposed  prison  in  Ferrara  ;  Shakespeare's 
house  in  Stratford,  with  his  chair  ;  Goethe's  house  in  Weimar, 
with  its  furniture;  Kant's  old  hat;  the  autographs  of  great 
men  ;  these  things  are  gaped  at  with  interest  and  awe  by  many 
who  have  never  read  their  works.  They  cannot  do  anything 
more  than  just  gape. 

The  intelligent  amongst  them  are  moved  by  the  wish  to  see 
the  obje6ls  which  the  great  man  habitually  had  before  his  eyes  ; 
and  by  a  strange  illusion,  these  produce  the  mistaken  notion 
that  with  the  obje6ts  they  are  bringing  back  the  man  himself, 
or  that  something  of  him  must  cling  to  them.  Akin  to  such 
people  are  those  who  earnestly  strive  to  'acquaint  themselves 
with  the  subje6l-matter  of  a  poet's  works,  or  to  unravel  the 
personal  circumstances  and  events  in  his  life  which  have  sug- 
gested particular  passages.     This  is  as  though  the  audience  in 


ON    GENIUS.  107 

a  theatre  were  to  admire  a  fine  scene  and  then  rush  upon  the 
stage  to  look  at  the  scaffolding  that  supports  it.  There  are  in 
our  day  enough  instances  of  these  critical  investigators,  and 
they  prove  the  truth  of  the  saying  that  mankind  is  interested, 
not  in  the  form  of  a  work,  that  is,  in  its  manner  of  treatment, 
but  in  its  actual  matter.  All  it  cares  for  is  the  theme.  To  read 
a  philosopher's  biography,  instead  of  studying  his  thoughts,  is 
like  neglecting  a  picture  and  attending  only  to  the  style  of  its 
frame,  debating  whether  it  is  carved  well  or  ill,  and  how  much 
it  cost  to  gild  it. 

This  is  all  very  well.  However,  there  is  another  class  01 
persons  whose  interest  is  also  direded  to  material  and  personal 
considerations,  but  they  go  much  further  and  carry  it  to  a 
point  where  it  becomes  absolutely  futile.  Because  a  great  man 
has  opened  up  to  them  the  treasures  of  his  inmost  being,  and, 
by  a  supreme  effort  of  his  faculties,  produced  works  which  not 
only  redound  to  their  elevation  and  enlightenment,  but  will  also 
benefit  their  posterity  to  the  tenth  and  twentieth  generation  ; 
because  he  has  presented  mankind  with  a  matchless  gift,  these 
varlets  think  themselves  justified  in  sitting  in  judgment  upon 
his  personal  morality,  and  trying  if  they  cannot  discover  here 
or  there  some  spot  in  him  which  will  soothe  the  pain  they  feel 
at  the  sight  of  so  great  a  mind,  compared  with  the  overwhelm- 
ing feeling  of  their  own  nothingness. 

This  is  the  real  source  of  all  those  prolix  discussions,  carried 
on  in  countless  books  and  reviews,  on  the  moral  aspe<S  01 
Goethe's  life,  and  whether  he  ought  not  to  have  married  one 
or  other  of  the  girls  with  whom  he  fell  in  love  in  his  young 
days  ;  whether,  again,  instead  of  honestly  devoting  himself  to 
the  service  of  his  master,  he  should  not  have  been  a  man  01 
the  people,  a  German  patriot,  worthy  of  a  seat  in  the  Pauls- 
kirche,  and  so  on.  Such  crying  ingratitude  and  malicious  de- 
tradlion  prove  that  these  self-constituted  judges  are  as  great 
knaves  morally  as  they  are  intellectually,  which  is  saying  a 
great  deal. 

A  man  of  talent  will  strive  for  money  and  reputation  ;  but 


I08  THE   ART   OF    LITERATURE. 

the  spring  that  moves  genius  to  the  produflion  of  its  works  is 
not  so  easy  to  name.  Wealth  is  seldom  its  reward.  Nor  is  it 
reputation  or  glory  ;  only  a  Frenchman  could  mean  that. 
Glory  is  such  an  uncertain  thing,  and,  if  you  look  at  it  closely, 
of  so  little  value.  Besides  it  never  corresponds  to  the  effort 
you  have  made  : — 

Responsura  tuo  nunquam  est  par  fama  labori. 

Nor,  again,  is  it  exactly  the  pleasure  it  gives  you  ;  for  this  is 
almost  outweighed  by  the  greatness  of  the  effort.  It  is  rather 
a  peculiar  kind  of  instinct,  which  drives  the  man  of  genius  to 
give  permanent  form  to  what  he  sees  and  feels,  without  being 
conscious  of  any  further  motive.  It  works,  in  the  main,  by  a 
necessity  similar  to  that  which  makes  a  tree  bear  its  fruit ;  and 
no  external  condition  is  needed  but  the  ground  upon  which  it 
is  to  thrive. 

On  a  closer  examination,  it  seems  as  though,  in  the  case  of 
a  genius,  the  will  to  live,  which  is  the  spirit  of  the  human 
species,  were  conscious  of  having,  by  some  rare  chance,  and 
for  a  brief  period,  attained  a  greater  clearness  of  vision,  and 
were  now  trying  to  secure  it,  or  at  least  the  outcome  of  it,  for 
the  whole  species,  to  which  the  individual  genius  in  his  inmost 
being  belongs ;  so  that  the  light  which  he  sheds  about  him 
may  pierce  the  darkness  and  dullness  of  ordinary  human  con- 
sciousness and  there  produce  some  good  effect. 

Arising  in  some  such  way,  this  instinct  drives  the  genius  to 
carry  his  work  to  completion,  without  thinking  of  reward  or 
applause  or  sympathy  ;  to  leave  all  care  for  his  own  personal 
welfare  ;  to  make  his  life  one  of  industrious  solitude,  and  to 
strain  his  faculties  to  the  utmost.  He  thus  comes  to  think 
more  about  posterity  than  about  contemporaries  ;  because, 
while  the  latter  can  only  lead  him  astray,  posterity  forms  the 
majority  of  the  species,  and  time  will  gradually  bring  the  dis- 
cerning few  who  can  appreciate  him.  Meanwhile  it  is  with 
him  as  with  the  artist  described  by  Goethe  ;  he  has  no  princely 
patron  to  prize  his  talents,  no  friend  to  rejoice  with  him  : — 


ON    GENIUS.  109 

Ein  Furst  der  die  Talente  schatzt, 
Ein  Freund,  der  sich  tnit  mir  ergotzt. 
Die  haben  leider  mir  gefehlt. 

His  work  is,  as  it  were,  a  sacred  obje<5l  and  the  true  fruit  of 
his  life,  and  his  aim  in  storing  it  away  for  a  more  discerning 
posterity  will  be  to  make  it  the  property  of  mankind.  An  aim 
like  this  far  surpasses  all  others,  and  for  it  he  wears  the  crown 
of  thorns  which  is  one  day  to  bloom  into  a  wreath  of  laurel. 
All  his  powers  are  concentrated  in  the  effort  to  complete  and 
secure  his  work  ;  just  as  the  inseA,  in  the  last  stage  of  its 
development,  uses  its  whole  strength  on  behalf  of  a  brood  it 
will  never  live  to  see  ;  it  puts  its  eggs  in  some  place  of  safety, 
where,  as  it  well  knows,  the  young  will  one  day  find  life  and 
nourishment,  and  then  dies  in  confidence. 


STUDIES  IN  PESSIMISM. 


NOTE. 

THE  Essays  here  presented  form  a  further  sele<5boiv  from 
Schopenhauer's  Parerga,  brought  together  under  a  title 
which  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  original,  and  does  not  claim  to 
apply  to  every  chapter  in  the  volume.  The  first  essay  is,  in 
the  main,  a  rendering  of  the  philosopher's  remarks  under  the 
heading  of  Nachtrdge  zur  Lehre  oom  Leiden  der  Welt,  to- 
gether with  certain  parts  of  another  se6lion  entitled  Nachtrdge 
zur  Lehre  von  der  Bejahung  und  Vemeinung  des  Willens  zum 
Leben.  Such  omissions  as  I  have  made  are  directed  chiefly  by 
the  desire  to  avoid  repeating  arguments  already  familiar  to 
readers  of  the  other  volumes  in  this  series.  The  Dialogue  on 
Immortality  sums  up  views  expressed  at  length  in  the  philoso- 
pher's chief  work,  and  treated  again  in  the  Parerga.  The 
Psychological  Observations  in  this  and  the  previous  volume 
practically  exhaust  the  chapter  of  the  original  which  bears 
this  tide. 

The  essay  on  Women  must  not  be  taken  in  jest.  It  expresses 
Schopenhauer's  serious  convictions  ;  and,  as  a  penetrating  ob- 
server of  the  faults  of  humanity,  he  may  be  allowed  a  hearing 
on  a  question  which  is  just  now  receiving  a  good  deal  of  atten- 
tion among  us. 

T.  B.  S. 


CONTENTS. 
— 0 — 

On  the  Sufferings  of  the  World,     -       -       -         7 
On  the  Vanity  of  Existence,       -        -        -        -        22 

On  Suicide,       --------        27 

Immortality  :   A  Dialogue,     -----        33 

Psychological  Observations,         -        -        -        -        38 

On  Education,  -        -  -        -        -        -        59 

Of  Women,        -...----        67 

On  Noise,  -..-----82 

A  Few  Parables,      .------87 


ON  THE  SUFFERINGS  OF  THE  WORLD. 

UNLESS  suffering  is  the  dire<5l  and  immediate  obje(5l  of 
life,  our  existence  must  entirely  fail  of  its  aim.  It  is 
absurd  to  look  upon  the  enormous  amount  of  pain  that  abounds 
everywhere  in  the  world,  and  originates  in  needs  and  necessities 
inseparable  from  life  itself,  as  serving  no  purpose  at  all  and  the 
result  of  mere  chance.  Each  separate  misfortune,  as  it  comes, 
seems,  no  doubt,  to  be  something  exceptional ;  but  misfortune 
in  general  is  the  rule. 

I  know  of  no  greater  absurdity  than  that  propounded  by 
most  systems  of  philosophy  in  declaring  evil  to  be  negative  in 
its  chara6ler.  Evil  is  just  what  is  positive  ;  it  makes  its  own 
existence  felt.  Leibnitz  is  particularly  concerned  to  defend 
this  absurdity  ;  and  he  seeks  to  strengthen  his  position  by 
using  a  palpable  and  paltry  sophism.^  It  is  the  good  which  is 
negative  ;  in  other  words,  happiness  and  satisfa(5lion  always 
imply  some  desire  fulfilled,  some  state  of  pain  brought  to 
an  end. 

This  explains  the  fa(5l  that  we  generally  find  pleasure  to  be 
not  nearly  so  pleasant  as  we  expelled,  and  pain  very  much 
more  painful. 

The  pleasure  in  this  world,  it  has  been  said,  outweighs  the 
pain  ;  or,  at  any  rate,  there  is  an  even  balance  between  the 

"  Translator' s  Note,  of.  Theod,  §  153.  Leibnitz  argued  that  evil  is 
a  negative  quality — i.e.,  the  absence  of  good  ;  and  that  its  active  and 
seemingly  positive  character  is  an  incidental  and  not  an  essential  part 
of  its  nature  Cold,  he  said,  is  only  the  absence  of  the  power  of  heat, 
and  the  adlive  power  of  expansion  in  freezing  water  is  an  incidental 
and  not  an  essential  part  of  the  nature  of  cold.  The  faft  is,  that  the 
power  of  expansion  in  freezing  water  is  really  an  increase  of  repulsion 
amongst  its  molecules  ;  and  Schopenhauer  is  quite  right  in  calling  the 
whole  argument  a  sophism.  (7) 


8  STUDIES    IN    PESSIMISM. 

two.  If  the  reader  wishes  to  see  shortly  whether  this  statement 
is  true,  let  him  compare  the  respective  feelings  of  two  animals, 
one  of  which  is  engaged  in  eating  the  other. 

The  best  consolation  in  misfortune  or  affli6tion  of  any  kind 
will  be  the  thought  of  other  people  who  are  in  a  still  worse 
plight  than  yourself ;  and  this  is  a  form  of  consolation  open  to 
every  one.  But  what  an  awful  fate  this  means  for  mankind 
as  a  whole  ! 

We  are  like  lambs  in  a  field,  disporting  themselves  under  the 
eye  of  the  butcher,  who  chooses  out  first  one  and  then  another 
for  his  prey.  So  it  is  that  in  our  good  days  we  are  all  uncon- 
scious of  the  evil  Fate  may  have  presently  in  store  for  us — 
sickness,  poverty,  mutilation,  loss  of  sight  or  reason. 

No  little  part  of  the  torment  of  existence  lies  in  this,  that 
Time  is  continually  pressing  upon  us,  never  letting  us  take 
breath,  but  always  coming  after  us,  like  a  taskmaster  with  a 
whip.  If  at  any  moment  Time  stays  his  hand,  it  is  only  when 
we  are  delivered  over  to  the  misery  of  boredom. 

But  misfortune  has  its  uses  ;  for,  as  our  bodily  frame  would 
burst  asunder  if  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere  were  removed, 
so,  if  the  lives  of  men  were  relieved  of  all  need,  hardship  and 
adversity  ;  if  everything  they  took  in  hand  were  successful, 
they  would  be  so  swollen  with  arrogance  that,  though  they 
might  not  burst,  they  would  present  the  spectacle  of  unbridled 
folly — nay,  they  would  go  mad.  And  I  may  say,  further,  that 
a  certain  amount  of  care  or  pain  or  trouble  is  necessary  for 
every  man  at  all  times.  A  ship  without  ballast  is  unstable  and 
will  not  go  straight. 

Certain  it  is  that  work,  worry,  labor  and  trouble^  form  the 
lot  of  almost  all  men  their  whole  life  long.  But  if  all  wishes 
were  fulfilled  as  soon  as  they  arose,  how  would  men  occupy 
their  lives  ?  what  would  they  do  with  their  time  ?  If  the  world 
were  a  paradise  of  luxury  and  ease,  a  land  flowing  with  milk 
and  honey,  where  every  Jack  obtained  his  Jill  ai  once  and  with- 
out any  difficulty,  men  would  either  die  of  boredom  or  hang 
themselves  ;  or  there  would  be  wars,  massacres,  and  murders  ; 


SUFFERINGS  OF  THE  WORLD.  9 

SO  that  in  the  end  mankind  would  infliA  more  suffering  on  it- 
self than  it  has  now  to  accept  at  the  hands  of  Nature. 

In  early  youth,  as  we  contemplate  our  coming  life,  we  are 
like  children  in  a  theatre  before  the  curtain  is  raised,  sitting 
there  in  high  spirits  and  eagerly  waiting  for  the  play  to  begin. 
It  is  a  blessing  that  we  do  not  know  what  is  really  going  to 
happen.  Could  we  foresee  it,  there  are  times  when  children 
might  seem  like  innocent  prisoners,  condemned,  not  to  death, 
but  to  life,  and  as  yet  all  unconscious  of  what  their  sentence 
means.  Nevertheless,  every  man  desires  to  reach  old  age  ;  in 
other  words,  a  stale  of  life  of  which  it  may  be  said  :  "  It  is  bad 
to-day,  and  it  will  be  worse  to-morrow  ;  and  so  on  till  the  worst 
of  all." 

If  you  try  to  imagine,  as  nearly  as  you  can,  what  an  amount 
of  misery,  pain  and  suffering  of  every  kind  the  sun  shines  upon 
in  its  course,  you  will  admit  that  it  would  be  much  better  if, 
on  the  earth  as  little  as  on  the  moon,  the  sun  were  able  to  call 
forth  the  phenomena  of  lite  ;  and  if,  here  as  there,  the  surface 
were  still  in  a  crystalline  state. 

Again,  you  may  look  upon  life  as  an  unprofitable  episode, 
disturbing  the  blessed  calm  of  non-existence.  And,  in  any 
case,  even  though  things  have  gone  with  you  tolerably  well, 
the  longer  you  live  the  more  clearly  you  will  feel  that,  on  the 
whole,  life  is  a  disappointment,  nay,  a  cheat. 

If  two  men  who  were  friends  in  their  youth  meet  again  when 
they  are  old,  after  being  separated  for  a  life-time,  the  chief  feeling 
they  will  have  at  the  sight  of  each  other  will  be  one  of  complete 
disappointment  at  life  as  a  whole  ;  because  their  thoughts  will 
be  carried  back  to  that  ealier  time  when  life  seemed  so  fair  as  it 
lay  spread  out  before  them  in  the  rosy  light  of  dawn,  promised 
so  much — and  then  performed  so  little.  This  feeling  will  so 
completely  predominate  over  every  other  that  they  will  not 
even  consider  it  necessary  to  give  it  words  ;  but  on  either  side 
it  will  be  silently  assumed,  and  form  the  ground-work  of  all 
they  have  to  talk  about. 

He  who  lives  to  see  two  or  three  generations  is  like  a  man 


lO  STUDIES   IN   PESSIMISM. 

who  sits  some  time  in  the  conjurer's  booth  at  a  fair,  and  wit- 
nesses the  performance  twice  or  thrice  in  succession.  The 
tricks  were  meant  to  be  seen  only  once  ;  and  when  they  are  no 
longer  a  novelty  and  cease  to  deceive,  their  effe6l  is  gone. 

While  no  man  is  much  to  be  envied  for  his  lot,  there  are 
countless  numbers  whose  fate  is  to  be  deplored. 

Life  is  a  task  to  be  done.  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  say  defun^us 
est ;  it  means  that  the  man  has  done  his  task. 

If  children  were  brought  into  the  world  by  an  a<5l  of  pure 
reason  alone,  would  the  human  race  continue  to  exist  ?  Would 
not  a  man  rather  have  so  much  sympathy  with  the  coming 
generation  as  to  spare  it  the  burden  of  existence  ?  or  at  any 
rate  not  take  it  upon  himself  to  impose  that  burden  upon  it  in 
cold  blood.  ! 

I  shall  be  told,  I  suppose,  that  my  philosophy  is  comfortless 
— because  I  speak  the  truth  ;  and  people  prefer  to  be  assured 
that  everything  the  Lord  has  made  is  good.  Go  to  the  priests, 
then,  and  leave  philosophers  in  peace  !  At  any  rate,  do  not 
ask  us  to  accommodate  our  doctrines  to  the  lessons  you  have 
been  taught.  That  is  what  those  rascals  of  sham  philosophers 
will  do  for  you  Ask  them  for  any  doctine  you  please,  and 
you  will  get  it.  Your  University  professors  are  bound  to 
preach  optimism  ;  and  it  is  an  easy  and  agreeable  task  to  upset 
their  theories. 

I  have  reminded  the  reader  that  every  state  of  welfare,  every 
feeling  of  satisfa<5lion,  is  negative  in  its  charadler ;  that  is  to 
say,  it  consists  in  freedom  from  pain,  which  is  the  positive  ele- 
ment of  existence.  It  follows,  therefore,  that  the  happiness  of 
any  given  life  is  to  be  measured,  not  by  its  joys  and  pleasures, 
but  by  the  extent  to  which  it  has  been  free  from  suffering — from 
positive  evil.  If  this  is  the  true  standpoint,  the  lower  animals 
appear  to  enjoy  a  happier  destiny  than  man.  Let  us  examine 
the  matter  a  little  more  closely. 

However  varied  the  forms  that  human  happiness  and  misery 
may  take,  leading  a  man  to  seek  the  one  and  shun  the  other, 
the  material  basis  of  it  all  is  bodily  pleasure  or  bodily  pain. 


SUFFERINGS  OF  THE   WORLD.  II 

This  basis  is  very  restri6led  :  it  is  simply  health,  food,  protec- 
tion from  wet  and  cold,  the  satisfaAion  of  the  sexual  instinct ; 
or  else  the  absence  of  these  things.  Consequentiy,  as  far  as 
real  physical  pleasure  is  concerned,  the  man  is  not  better  off 
than  the  brute,  except  in  so  far  as  the  higher  possibilities  of 
his  nervous  system  make  him  more  sensitive  to  every  kind  of 
pleasure,  but  also,  it  must  be  remembered,  to  every  kind  of 
pain.  But  then  compared  with  the  brute,  how  much  stronger 
are  the  passions  aroused  in  him  !  what  an  immeasurable  differ- 
ence there  is  in  the  depth  and  vehemence  of  his  emotions  ! — 
and  yet,  in  the  one  case,  as  in  the  other,  all  to  produce  the 
same  result  in  the  end  :  namely,  health,  food,  clothing,  and 
so  on. 

The  chief  source  of  all  this  passion  is  that  thought  for  what 
is  absent  and  future,  which,  with  man,  exercises  such  a  power- 
ful influence  upon  all  he  does.  It  is  this  that  is  the  real  origin 
of  his  cares,  his  hopes,  his  fears — emotions  which  affect  him 
much  more  deeply  than  could  ever  be  the  case  with  those 
present  joys  and  sufferings  to  which  the  brute  is  confined.  In 
his  powers  of  reflexion,  memory  and  foresight,  man  possesses, 
as  it  were,  a  machine  for  condensing  and  storing  up  his  pleas- 
ures and  his  sorrows.  But  the  brute  has  nothing  of  the  kind  ; 
whenever  it  is  in  pain,  it  is  as  though  it  were  suffering  for  the 
first  time,  even  though  the  same  thing  should  have  previously 
happened  to  it  times  out  of  number.  It  has  no  power  of  sum- 
ming up  its  feelings.  Hence  its  careless  and  placid  temper : 
how  much  it  is  to  be  envied  !  But  in  man  reflexion  comes  in, 
with  all  the  emotions  to  which  it  gives  rise  ;  and  taking  up  the 
same  elements  of  pleasure  and  pain  which  are  common  to  him 
and  the  brute,  it  develops  his  susceptibility  to  happiness  and 
misery  to  such  a  degree  that,  at  one  moment  the  man  is 
brought  in  an  instant  to  a  state  of  delight  that  may  even  prove 
fatal,  at  another  to  the  depths  of  despair  and  suicide. 

If  we  carry  our  analysis  a  step  farther,  we  shall  find  that,  in 
order  to  increase  his  pleasures,  man  has  intentionally  added  to 
the  number  and  pressure  of  his  needs,  which  in  their  original 


12  STUDIES   IN   PESSIMISM. 

State  were  not  much  more  difficult  to  satisfy  than  those  of  the 
brute.  Hence  luxury  in  all  its  forms  ;  delicate  food,  the  use 
of  tobacco  and  opium,  spirituous  liquors,  fine  clothes,  and  the 
thousand  and  one  things  that  he  considers  necessary  to  his 
existence. 

And  above  and  beyond  all  this,  there  is  a  separate  and  pecu- 
liar source  of  pleasure,  and  consequently  of  pain,  which  man 
has  established  for  himself,  also  as  the  result  of  using  his  pow- 
ers of  reflection  ;  and  this  occupies  him  out  of  all  proportion 
to  its  value,  nay,  almost  more  than  all  his  other  interests  put 
together — I  mean  ambition  and  the  feeling  of  honor  and  shame ; 
in  plain  words,  what  he  thinks  about  the  opinion  other  people 
have  of  him.  Taking  a  thousand  forms,  often  very  strange 
ones,  this  becomes  the  goal  of  almost  all  the  efforts  he  makes 
that  are  not  rooted  in  physical  pleasure  or  pain.  It  is  true  that 
besides  the  sources  of  pleasure  which  he  has  in  common  with 
the  brute,  man  has  the  pleasures  of  the  mind  as  well.  These 
admit  of  many  gradations,  from  the  most  innocent  trifling  or 
the  merest  talk  up  to  the  highest  intellectual  achievements  ; 
but  there  is  the  accompanying  boredom  to  be  set  against  them 
on  the  side  of  suffering.  Boredom  is  a  form  of  suffering  un- 
known to  brutes,  at  any  rate  in  their  natural  state  ;  it  is  only 
the  very  cleverest  of  them  who  show  faint  traces  of  it  when 
they  are  domesticated  ;  whereas  in  the  case  of  man  it  has  be- 
come a  downright  scourge.  The  crowd  of  miserable  wretches 
whose  one  aim  in  life  is  to  fill  their  purses  but  never  to  put 
anything  into  their  heads,  offers  a  singular  instance  of  this 
torment  of  boredom.  Their  wealth  becomes  a  punishment  by 
delivering  them  up  to  the  misery  of  having  nothing  to  do  ;  for, 
to  escape  it,  they  will  rush  about  in  all  directions,  traveling 
here,  there  and  everywhere.  No  sooner  do  they  arrive  in  a 
place  than  they  are  anxious  to  know  what  amusements  it  af- 
fords ;  just  as  though  they  were  beggars  asking  where  they 
could  receive  a  dole  !  Of  a  truth,  need  and  boredom  are  the 
two  poles  of  human  life.  Finally,  I  may  mention  that  as 
regards  the  sexual  relation,  man  is  committed  to  a  peculiar 


SUFFERINGS   OF   THE    WORLD.  I3 

arrangement  which  drives  him  obstinately  to  choose  one  per- 
son. This  feeling  grows,  now  and  then,  into  a  more  or  less 
passionate  love,*  which  is  the  source  of  little  pleasure  and 
much  suffering. 

It  is,  however,  a  wonderful  thing  that  the  mere  addition  of 
thought  should  serve  to  raise  such  a  vast  and  lofty  stru6lure  of 
human  happiness  and  misery  ;  resting,  too,  on  the  same  nar- 
row basis  of  joy  and  sorrow  as  man  holds  in  common  with  the 
brute,  and  exposing  him  to  such  violent  emotions,  to  so  many 
storms  of  passion,  so  much  convulsion  of  feeling,  that  what  he 
has  suffered  stands  written  and  may  be  read  in  the  lines  on  his 
face.  And  yet,  when  all  is  told,  he  has  been  struggling  ulti- 
mately for  the  very  same  things  as  the  brute  has  attained,  and 
with  an  incomparably  smaller  expenditure  of  passion  and  pain. 

But  all  this  contributes  to  increase  the  measure  of  suffering 
in  human  life  out  of  all  proportion  to  its  pleasures  ;  and  the 
pains  of  life  are  made  much  worse  for  man  by  the  fad  that 
death  is  something  very  real  to  him.  The  brute  flies  from 
death  instinctively  without  really  knowing  what  it  is,  and 
therefore  without  ever  contemplating  it  in  the  way  natural  to  a 
man,  who  has  this  prospedl  always  before  his  eyes.  So  that 
even  if  only  a  few  brutes  die  a  natural  death,  and  most  of  them 
live  only  just  long  enough  to  transmit  their  species,  and  then, 
if  not  earlier,  become  the  prey  of  some  other  animal, — whilst 
man,  on  the  other  hand,  manages  to  make  so-called  natural 
death  the  rule>  to  which,  however,  there  are  a  good  many  ex- 
ceptions,— the  advantage  is  on  the  side  of  the  brute,  for  the 
reason  stated  above.  But  the  fa6l  is  that  man  attains  the 
natural  term  of  years  just  as  seldom  as  the  brute  ;  because  the 
unnatural  way  in  which  he  lives,  and  the  strain  of  work  and 
emotion,  lead  to  a  degeneration  of  the  race  ;  and  so  his  goal 
is  not  often  reached. 

The  brute  is  much  more  content  with  mere  existence  than 
man  ;   the  plant  is  wholly  so  ;   and  man  finds  satisfaction  in  it 

'  I  have  treated  this  subjedl  at  length  in  a  special  chapter  of  the 
second  volume  of  my  chief  work. 


14  STUDIES   IN   PESSIMISM. 

just  in  proportion  as  he  is  dull  and  obtuse.  Accordingly,  the 
life  of  the  brute  carries  less  of  sorrow  with  it,  but  also  less  of 
joy,  when  compared  with  the  life  of  man  ;  and  while  this  may 
be  traced,  on  the  one  side,  to  freedom  from  the  torment  of  care 
and  anxiety,  it  is  also  due  to  the  fa6l  that  hope,  in  any  real 
sense,  is  unknown  to  the  brute.  It  is  thus  deprived  of  any 
share  in  that  which  gives  us  the  most  and  the  best  of  our  joys 
and  pleasures,  the  mental  anticipation  of  a  happy  future,  and 
the  inspiriting  play  of  phantasy,  both  of  which  we  owe  to  our 
power  of  imagination.  If  the  brute  is  free  from  care,  it  is  also, 
in  this  sense,  without  hope  ;  in  either  case,  because  its  con- 
sciousness is  limited  to  the  present  moment,  to  what  it  can 
actually  see  before  it.  The  brute  is  an  embodiment  of  present 
impulses,  and  hence  what  elements  of  fear  and  hope  exist  in 
its  nature — and  they  do  not  go  very  far — arise  only  in  relation 
to  obje6ts  that  lie  before  it  and  within  reach  of  those  impulses  : 
whereas  a  man's  range  of  vision  embraces  the  whole  of  his 
life,  and  extends  far  into  the  past  and  future. 

Following  upon  this,  there  is  one  respedl  in  which  brutes 
show  real  wisdom  when  compared  with  us — I  mean,  their  quiet, 
placid  enjoyment  of  the  present  moment.  The  tranquillity  of 
mind  which  this  seems  to  give  them  often  puts  us  to  shame 
for  the  many  times  we  allow  our  thoughts  and  our  cares  to 
make  us  restless  and  discontented.  And,  in  fa6l,  those  pleasures 
of  hope  and  anticipation  which  I  have  been  mentioning  are 
not  to  be  had  for  nothing.  The  delight  which  a  man  has  in 
hoping  for  and  looking  forward  to  some  special  satisfa6lion  is 
a  part  of  the  real  pleasure  attaching  to  it  enjoyed  in  advance. 
This  is  afterwards  dedu<5led  ;  for  the  more  we  look  forward  to 
anything,  the  less  satisfa6lion  we  find  in  it  when  it  comes. 
But  the  brute's  enjoyment  is  not  anticipated,  and  therefore, 
suffers  no  dedu6lion  ;  so  that  the  a6lual  pleasure  of  the  mo- 
ment comes  to  it  whole  and  unimpaired.  In  the  same  way, 
too,  evil  presses  upon  the  brute  only  with  its  own  intrinsic 
weight ;  whereas  with  us  the  fear  of  its  coming  often  makes 
its  burden  ten  times  more  grievous. 


SUFFERINGS  OF  THE    WORLD.  1 5 

It  is  just  this  chara6leristic  way  in  which  the  brute  gives 
itself  up  entirely  to  the  present  moment  that  contributes  so 
much  to  the  delight  we  take  in  our  domestic  pets.  They  are 
the  present  moment  personified,  and  in  some  respe6ls  they 
make  us  feel  the  value  of  every  hour  that  is  free  from  trouble 
and  annoyance,  which  we,  with  our  thoughts  and  preoccupa- 
tions, mostly  disregard.  But  man,  that  selfish  and  heartless 
creature,  misuses  this  quality  of  the  brute  to  be  more  content 
than  we  are  with  mere  existence,  and  often  works  it  to  such 
an  extent  that  he  allows  the  brute  absolutely  nothing  more 
than  mere,  bare  life.  The  bird  which  was  made  so  that 
it  might  rove  over  half  of  the  world,  he  shuts  up  into  the  space 
of  a  cubic  foot,  there  to  die  a  slow  death  in  longing  and  cry- 
ing for  freedom  ;  for  in  a  cage  it  does  not  sing  for  the  pleasure 
of  it.  And  when  I  see  how  man  misuses  the  dog,  his  best 
friend  ;  how  he  ties  up  this  intelligent  animal  with  a  chain,  I 
feel  the  deepest  sympathy  with  the  brute  and  burning  indig- 
nation against  its  master. 

We  shall  see  later  that  by  taking  a  very  high  standpoint  it 
is  possible  to  justify  the  sufferings  of  mankind.  But  this  justi- 
fication cannot  apply  to  animals,  whose  sufferings,  while  in  a 
great  measure  brought  about  by  men,  are  often  considerable 
even  apart  from  their  agency.'  And  so  we  are  forced  to  ask. 
Why  and  for  what  purpose  does  all  this  torment  and  agony 
exist?  There  is  nothing  here  to  give  the  will  pause  ;  it  is  not 
free  to  deny  itself  and  so  obtain  redemption.  There  is  only 
one  consideration  that  may  serve  to  explain  the  sufferings  of 
animals.  It  is  this  :  that  the  will  to  hve,  which  underlies  the 
whole  world  of  phenomena,  must,  in  their  case  satisfy  its  crav- 
ings by  feeding  upon  itself.  This  it  does  by  forming  a  grada- 
tion of  phenomena,  every  one  of  which  exists  at  the  expense 
of  another.  I  have  shown,  however,  that  the  capacity  for 
suffering  is  less  in  animals  than  in  man.  Any  further  expla- 
nation that  may  be  given  of  their  fate  will  be  in  the  nature 
of  hypothesis,  if  not  actually  mythical  in  its  character ;  and 
•  Cf.  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vorstellung,  vol.  ii.  p.  404. 


l6  I        STUDIES   IN    PESSIMISM. 

I  may  leave  the  reader  to  speculate  upon  the  matter  for 
himself. 

Brahma  is  said  to  have  produced  the  world  by  a  kind  of  fall 
or  mistake  ;  and  in  order  to  atone  for  his  folly,  he  is  bound  to 
remain  in  it  himself  until  he  works  out  his  redemption.  As 
an  account  of  the  origin  of  things,  that  is  admirable  !  Accord- 
ing to  the  do6lrines  of  Buddhism,  the  world  came  into  being 
as  the  result  of  some  inexplicable  disturbance  in  the  heavenly 
calm  of  Nirvana,  that  blessed  state  obtained  by  expiation, 
which  had  endured  so  long  a  time — the  change  taking  place 
by  a  kind  of  fatality.  This  explanation  must  be  understood  as 
having  at  bottom  some  moral  bearing  ;  although  it  is  illus- 
trated by  an  exadlly  parallel  theory  in  the  domain  of  physical 
science,  which  places  the  origin  of  the  sun  in  a  primitive  streak 
of  mist,  formed  one  knows  not  how.  Subsequently,  by  a 
series  of  moral  errors,  the  world  became  gradually  worse  and 
worse — true  of  the  physical  orders  as  well — until  it  assumed 
the  dismal  aspe6l  it  wears  to-day.  Excellent !  The  Greeks 
looked  upon  the  world  and  the  gods  as  the  work  of  an  inscrut- 
able necessity.  A  passable  explanation  :  we  may  be  content 
with  it  until  we  can  get  a  better.  Again,  Orm,uzd  znA  Ahriman 
are  rival  powers,  continually  at  war.  That  is  not  bad.  But 
that  a  God  like  Jehovah  should  have  created  this  world  of 
misery  and  woe,  out  of  pure  caprice,  and  because  he  enjoyed 
doing  it,  and  should  then  have  clapped  his  hands  in  praise  of 
his  own  work,  and  declared  everything  to  be  very  good — that 
will  not  do  at  all  !  In  its  explanation  of  the  origin  of  the 
world,  Judaism  is  inferior  to  any  other  form  of  religious  doc- 
trine professed  by  a  civilized  nation  ;  and  it  is  quite  in  keeping 
with  this  that  it  is  the  only  one  which  presents  no  trace  what- 
ever of  any  belief  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul.' 

Even  though  Leibnitz'  contention,  that  this  is  the  best  of 
all  possible  worlds,  were  corre6l,  that  would  not  justify  God  in 
having  created  it.     For  he  is  the  Creator  not  of  the  world 

>  See  Parerga,  vol  i.  pp.  139  et  seg. 


SUFFERINGS  OF  THE    WORLD.  1 7 

only,  but  of  possibility  itself;  and,  therefore,  he  ought  to  have 
so  ordered  possibility  as  that  it  would  admit  of  something  better. 

There  are  two  things  which  make  it  impossible  to  believe 
that  this  world  is  the  successful  work  of  an  all  wise,  all-good, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  all-powerful  Being ;  firstly,  the  misery 
which  abounds  in  it  everywhere ;  and  secondly,  the  obvious 
imperfe6lion  of  its  highest  produ6t,  man,  who  is  a  burlesque  of 
what  he  should  be.  These  things  cannot  be  reconciled  with 
any  such  belief  On  the  contrary,  they  are  just  the  fa<5ls  which 
support  what  I  have  been  saying  ;  they  are  our  authority  for 
viewing  the  world  as  the  outcome  of  our  own  misdeeds,  and 
therefore,  as  something  that  had  better  not  have  been.  Whilst, 
under  the  former  hypothesis,  they  amount  to  a  bitter  accusa- 
tion against  the  Creator,  and  supply  material  for  sarcasm  ; 
under  the  latter  they  form  an  indi6lment  against  our  own 
nature,  our  own  will,  and  teach  us  a  lesson  of  humility.  They 
lead  us  to  see  that,  like  the  children  of  a  libertine,  we  come 
into  the  world  with  the  burden  of  sin  upon  us  ;  and  that  it  is 
only  through  having  continually  to  atone  for  this  sin  that  our 
existence  is  so  miserable,  and  that  its  end  is  death. 

There  is  nothing  more  certain  than  the  general  truth  that  it 
is  the  grievous  sin  of  the  world  which  has  produced  the  griev- 
ous suffering  of  the  world.  I  am  not  referring  here  to  the 
physical  connection  between  these  two  things  lying  in  the  realm 
of  experience  ;  my  meaning  is  metaphysical.  Accordingly, 
the  sole  thing  that  reconciles  me  to  the  Old  Testament  is  the 
story  of  the  Fall.  In  my  eyes,  it  is  the  only  metaphysical 
truth  in  that  book,  even  though  it  appears  in  the  form  of  an 
allegory.  There  seems  to  me  no  better  explanation  of  our 
existence  than  that  it  is  the  result  of  some  false  step,  some  sin 
of  which  we  are  paying  the  penalty.  I  cannot  refrain  from  rec- 
ommending the  thoughtful  reader  a  popular,  but  at  the  same 
time,    profound  treatise  on   this  subje<5t  by  Claudius '  which 

>  Translator's  Note.  Matthias  Claudius  (1740-1815),  a  popular 
poet,  and  friend  of  Klopstock,  Herder  and  Lessing.  He  edited  the 
Wandsbecker  Bote,  in  the  fourth  part  of  which  appeared  the  treatise 
mentioned  above.  He  generally  wrote  under  the  pseudonym  of 
Asmus,  and  Schopenhauer  often  refers  to  him  by  this  name. 


l8  STUDIES   IN   PESSIMISM. 

exhibits  the  essentially  pessimistic  spirit  of  Christianity.     It  is 
entitled  :   Cursed  is  the  ground  for  thy  sake. 

Between  the  ethics  of  the  Greeks  and  the  ethics  of  the 
Hindoos,  there  is  a  glaring  contrast.  In  the  one  case  (with 
the  exception,  it  must  be  confessed,  of  Plato),  the  obje6l  of 
ethics  is  to  enable  a  man  to  lead  a  happy  life  ;  in  the  other,  it 
is  to  free  and  redeem  him  from  life  altogether — as  is  diredlly 
stated  in  the  very  first  words  of  the  Sankhya  Karika. 

Allied  with  this  is  the  contrast  between  the  Greek  and  the 
Christian  idea  of  death.  It  is  strikingly  presented  in  a  visible 
form  on  a  fine  antique  sarcophagus  in  the  gallery  at  Florence, 
which  exhibits,  in  relief,  the  whole  series  of  ceremonies  attend- 
ing a  wedding  in  ancient  times,  from  the  formal  offer  to  the 
evening  when  Hymen's  torch  lights  the  hapjDy  couple  home. 
Compare  with  that  the  Christian  coffin,  draped  in  mournful 
black  and  surmounted  with  a  crucifix  !  How  much  significance 
there  is  in  these  two  ways  of  finding  comfort  in  death.  They 
are  opposed  to  each  other,  but  each  is  right.  The  one  points 
to  the  affirmation  of  the  will  to  live,  which  remains  sure  of  life 
for  all  time,  however  rapidly  its  forms  may  change.  The  other, 
in  the  symbol  of  suffering  and  death,  points  to  the  denial  of 
the  will  to  live,  to  redemption  from  this  world,  the  domain  of 
death  and  devil.  And  in  the  question  between  the  affirmation 
and  the  denial  of  the  will  to  live,  Christianity  is  in  the  last 
resort  right. 

The  contrast  which  the  New  Testament  presents  when 
compared  with  the  old,  according  to  the  ecclesiastical  view 
of  the  matter,  is  just  that  existing  between  my  ethical  system 
and  the  moral  philosophy  of  Europe.  The  Old  Testament  rep- 
resents man  as  under  the  dominion  of  Law,  in  which,  how- 
ever, there  is  no  redemption.  The  New  Testament  declares 
Law  to  have  failed,  frees  man  from  its  dominion,'  and  in  its 
stead  preaches  the  kingdom  of  grace,  to  be  won  by  faith,  love 
of  neighbor  and  entire  sacrifice  of  self  This  is  the  path  of  re- 
demption from  the  evil  of  the  world.     The  spirit  of  the  New 

'  Cf.  Romans  vii ;  Galatians  ii,  iii. 


SUFFERINGS   OF   THE    WORLD.  I9 

Testament  is  undoubtedly  asceticism,  however  your  protestants 
and  rationalists  may  twist  it  to  suit  their  purpose.  Asceticism 
is  the  denial  of  the  will  to  live  ;  and  the  transition  from  the  Old 
Testament  to  the  New,  from  the  dominion  of  Law  to  that  of 
Faith,  from  justification  by  works  to  redemption  through  the 
Mediator,  from  the  domain  of  sin  and  death  to  eternal  life  in 
Christ,  means,  when  taken  in  its  real  sense,  the  transition  from 
the  merely  moral  virtues  to  the  denial  of  the  will  to  live.  My 
philosophy  shows  the  metaphysical  foundation  of  justice  and 
the  love  of  mankind,  and  points  to  the  goal  to  which  these 
virtues  necessarily  lead,  if  they  are  pra6lised  in  perfedlion.  At 
the  same  time  it  is  candid  in  confessing  that  a  man  must  turn 
his  back  upon  the  world,  and  that  the  denial  of  the  will  to  live 
is  the  way  of  redemption.  It  is  therefore  really  at  one  with 
the  spirit  of  the  New  Testament,  whilst  all  other  systems  are 
couched  in  the  spirit  of  the  Old  ;  that  is  to  say,  theoretically 
as  well  as  practically,  their  result  is  Judaism — mere  despotic 
theism.  In  this  sense,  then,  my  do6lrine  might  be  called 
the  only  true  Christian  philosophy — however  paradoxical  a 
statement  this  may  seem  to  people  who  take  superficial  views 
instead  of  penetr?.ting  to  the  heart  of  the  matter. 

If  you  want  a  safe  compass  to  guide  you  through  life,  and  to 
banish  all  doubt  as  to  the  right  way  of  looking  at  it,  you  can- 
not do  better  than  accustom  yourself  to  regard  this  world  as  a 
penitentiary,  a  sort  of  penal  colony,  or  ipyaaTi/piov,  as  the  earli- 
est philosopher  called  it.^  Amongst  the  Christian  Fathers, 
Origen,  with  praiseworthy  courage,  took  this  view,*  which  is 
further  justified  by  certain  objedive  theories  of  life.  I  refer, 
not  to  my  own  philosophy  alone,  but  to  the  wisdom  of  all 
ages,  as  expressed  in  Brahmanism  and  Buddhism,  and  in  the  say- 
ings of  Greek  philosophers  like  Empedocles  and  Pythagoras  ; 
as  also  by  Cicero,  in  his  remark  that  the  wise  men  of  old  used 
to  teach  that  we  come  into  this  world  to  pay  the  penalty  of 

'  Cf.  Clem.  Alex.    Strom.  L.  iii.,  c.  3,  p.  399. 
>  Augustine  de  civitate  Dei.,  L.  xi.  c.  23. 


20  STUDIES   IN   PESSIMISM. 

crime  committed  in  another  state  of  existence — a  doftrine 
which  formed  part  of  the  initiation  into  the  mysteries/  And 
Vanini — whom  his  contemporaries  burned,  finding  that  an  easier 
task  than  to  confute  him — puts  the  same  thing  in  a  very 
forcible  way.  Man,  he  says,  is  so  full  of  every  kind  of 
misery  that,  were  it  not  repugnayit  to  the  Christian  religion, 
I  should  venture  to  affirm  that  if  evil  spirits  exist  at  all,  they 
have  passed  into  human  form  and  are  now  atoning  for  their 
crimes.^  And  true  Christianity — using  the  word  in  its  right 
sense — also  regards  our  existence  as  the  consequence  of  sin 
and  error. 

If  you  accustom  yourself  to  this  view  of  life  you  will  regulate 
your  expedlations  accordingly,  and  cease  to  look  upon  all  its 
disagreeable  incidents,  great  and  small,  its  sufferings,  its  wor- 
ries, its  misery,  as  anything  unusual  or  irregular  ;  nay,  you  will 
find  that  everything  is  as  it  should  be,  in  a  world  where  each 
of  us  pays  the  penalty  of  existence  in  his  own  peculiar  way. 
Amongst  the  evils  of  a  penal  colony  is  the  society  of  those  who 
form  it ;  and  if  the  reader  is  worthy  of  better  company,  he  will 
need  no  words  from  me  to  remind  him  of  what  he  has  to  put 
up  with  at  present.  If  he  has  a  soul  above  the  common,  or  if 
he  is  a  man  of  genius,  he  will  occasionally  feel  like  some  noble 
prisoner  of  state,  condemned  to  work  in  the  galleys  with  com- 
mon criminals  ;  and  he  will  follow  his  example  and  try  to  iso- 
late himself. 

In  general,  however,  it  should  be  said  that  this  view  of  life 
will  enable  us  to  contemplate  the  so-called  imperfections  of  the 
great  majority  of  men,  their  moral  and  intelledual  deficiencies 
and  the  resulting  base  type  of  countenance,  without  any  sur- 
prise, to  say  nothing  of  indignation  ;  for  we  shall  never  cease 
to  refledl  where  we  are,  and  that  the  men  about  us  are  beings 
conceived  and  born  in  sin,  and  living  to  atone  for  it.  That  is 
what  Christianity  means  in  speaking  of  the  sinful  nature  of  man. 

•  Cf.  Fragmenta  de  philosophia. 

*  De  admirandis  naturce  arcanis  ;  dial  L.  p.  35. 


SUFFERINGS  OF  THE    WORLD.  21 

Pardon's  the  word  to  all !  *  Whatever  folly  men  commit,  be 
their  shortcomings  or  their  vices  what  they  may,  let  us  exercise 
forbearance  ;  remembering  that  when  these  faults  appear  in 
others,  it  is  our  follies  and  vices  that  we  behold.  They  are  the 
shortcomings  of  humanity,  to  which  we  belong  ;  whose  faults, 
one  and  all,  we  share  ;  yes,  even  those  very  faults  at  which  we 
now  wax  so  indignant,  merely  because  they  have  not  yet  ap- 
peared in  ourselves.  They  are  faults  that  do  not  lie  on  the 
surface.  But  they  exist  down  there  in  the  depths  of  our  nature  ; . 
and  should  anything  call  them  forth,  they  will  come  and  show 
themselves,  just  as  we  now  see  them  in  others.  One  man,  it  is 
true,  may  have  faults  that  are  absent  in  his  fellow  ;  and  it  is 
undeniable  that  the  sum  total  of  bad  qualities  is  in  some  cases 
very  large  ;  for  the  difference  of  individuality  between  man  and 
man  passes  all  measure. 

In  fadl,  the  convi<5lion  that  the  world  and  man  is  something 
that  had  better  not  have  been,  is  of  a  kind  to  fill  us  with  indul- 
gence towards  one  another.  Nay,  from  this  point  of  view,  we 
might  well  consider  the  proper  form  of  address  to  be,  not 
Monsieur,  Sir,  mein  Herr,  but  my  fellow-sufferer,  Soc(  mado- 
rum,  compagnon  de  miseres  /  This  may  perhaps  sound  strange, 
but  it  is  in  keeping  with  the  fa<5ls  ;  it  puts  others  in  a  right 
light ;  and  it  reminds  us  of  that  which  is  after  all  the  most 
necessary  thing  in  life — the  tolerance,  patience,  regard,  and 
love  of  neighbor,  of  which  everyone  stands  in  need,  and  which,  . 
therefore,  every  man  owes  to  his  fellow, 

»  "Cymbeline,"  Act  v.  Sc.  5. 


THE  VANITY  OF  EXISTENCE. 

THIS  vanity  finds  expression  in  the  whole  way  in  which 
things  exist ;  in  the  infinite  nature  of  Time  and  Space, 
as  opposed  to  the  finite  nature  of  the  individual  in  both;  in  the 
ever-passing  present  moment  as  the  only  mode  of  a<5lual  exist- 
ence ;  in  the  interdependence  and  relativity  of  all  things  ;  in 
continual  Becoming  without  ever  Being  ;  in  constant  wishing 
and  never  being  satisfied  ;  in  the  long  battle  which  forms  the 
history  of  life,  where  every  effort  is  checked  by  difficulties, 
and  stopped  until  they  are  overcome.  Time  is  that  in  which 
all  things  pass  away  ;  it  is  merely  the  form  under  which  the 
will  to  live — the  thing-in-itself  and  therefore  imperishable — 
has  revealed  to  it  that  its  efforts  are  in  vain  ;  it  is  that  agent 
by  which  at  every  moment  all  things  in  our  hands  become  as 
nothing,  and  lose  any  real  value  they  possess. 

That  which  has  been  exists  no  more ;  it  exists  as  little  as 
that  which  has  never  been.  But  of  everything  that  exists  you 
must  say,  in  the  next  moment,  that  it  has  been.  Hence  some- 
thing of  great  importance  now  past  is  inferior  to  something  of 
little  importance  now  present,  in  that  the  latter  is  a  reality, 
and  related  to  the  former  as  something  to  nothing. 

A  man  finds  himself,  to  his  great  astonishment  suddenly  exist- 
ing, after  thousands  and  thousands  of  years  of  non-existence  :  he 
lives  for  a  little  while  ;  and  then,  again,  comes  an  equally  long 
period  when  he  must  exist  no  more.  The  heart  rebels  against 
this,  and  feels  that  it  cannot  be  true.  The  crudest  intelled 
cannot  speculate  on  such  a  subje<5l  without  having  a  presenti- 
ment that  Time  is  something  ideal  in  its  nature.  This  ideality 
of  Time  and  Space  is  the  key  to  every  true  system  of  meta- 

(22) 


THE  VANITY   OF   EXISTENCE.  23 

physics  ;  because  it  provides  for  quite  another  order  of  things 
than  is  to  be  met  with  in  the  domain  of  nature.  This  is  why 
Kant  is  so  great. 

Of  every  event  in  our  Ufe  we  can  say  only  for  one  moment 
that  it  is  ;  for  ever  after,  that  it  was.  Every  evening  we  are 
poorer  by  a  day.  It  might,  perhaps,  make  us  mad  to  see  how 
rapidly  our  short  span  of  time  ebbs  away  ;  if  it  were  not  that 
in  the  furthest  depths  of  our  being  we  are  secretly  conscious 
of  our  share  in  the  inexhaustible  spring  of  eternity,  so  that  we 
can  always  hope  to  find  life  in  it  again. 

Consideration  of  the  kind,  touched  on  above,  might,  indeed, 
lead  us  to  embrace  the  belief  that  the  greatest  wisdom  is  to 
make  the  enjoyment  of  the  present  the  supreme  object  of  life  ; 
because  that  is  the  only  reality,  all  else  being  merely  the  play 
of  thought.  On  the  other  hand,  such  a  course  might  just  as 
well  be  called  the  greatest  folly :  for  that  which  in  the  next 
moment  exists  no  more,  and  vanishes  utterly,  like  a  dream, 
can  never  be  worth  a  serious  effort. 

The  whole  foundation  on  which  our  existence  rests  is  the 
present — the  ever-fleeting  present.  It  lies,  then,  in  the  very 
nature  of  our  existence  to  take  the  form  of  constant  motion, 
and  to  offer  no  possibility  of  our  ever  attaining  the  rest  for 
which  we  are  always  striving.  We  are  like  a  man  running 
downhill,  who  cannot  keep  on  his  legs  unless  he  runs  on,  and 
will  inevitably  fall  if  he  stops  ;  or,  again,  like  a  pole  balanced 
on  the  tip  of  one's  finger;  or  like  a  planet,  which  would  fall 
into  its  sun  the  moment  it  ceased  to  hurry  forward  on  its  way. 
Unrest  is  the  mark  of  existence. 

In  a  world  where  all  is  unstable,  and  nought  can  endure,  but 
is  swept  onwards  at  once  in  the  hurrying  whirlpool  of  change  ; 
where  a  man,  if  he  is  to  keep  eredl  at  all,  must  always  be  ad- 
vancing and  moving,  like  an  acrobat  on  a  rope — in  such  a 
world,  happiness  is  inconceivable.  How  can  it  dwell  where, 
as  Plato  says,  continual  Becoming  and  never  Being  is  the  sole 
form  of  existence  ?  In  the  first  place,  a  man  never  is  happy, 
but  spends  his  whole  life  in  striving  after  something  which  he 
thinks  will  make  him  so  ;   he  seldom  attains  his  goal,  and 


24  STUDIES   IN    PESSIMISM. 

when  he  does,  it  is  only  to  be  disappointed  ;  he  is  mostly 
shipwrecked  in  the  end,  and  comes  into  harbor  with  masts  and 
rigging  gone.  And  then,  it  is  all  one  whether  he  has  been 
happy  or  miserable  ;  for  his  life  was  never  anything  more  than 
a  present  moment  always  vanishing  ;   and  now  it  is  over. 

At  the  same  time  it  is  a  wonderful  thing  that,  in  the  world 
of  human  beings  as  in  that  of  animals  in  general,  this  manifold 
restless  motion  is  produced  and  kept  up  by  the  agency  of  two 
simple  impulses — hunger  and  the  sexual  instin<5l ;  aided  a 
little,  perhaps,  by  the  influence  of  boredom,  but  by  nothing 
else  ;  and  that,  in  the  theatre  of  life,  these  suffice  to  form  the 
primum  mobile  of  how  complicated  a  machinery,  setting  in 
motion  how  strange  and  varied  a  scene  ! 

On  looking  a  little  closer,  we  find  that  inorganic  matter  pre- 
sents a  constant  confli<5l  between  chemical  forces,  which  event- 
ually works  dissolution  ;  and  on  the  other  hand,  that  organic 
life  is  impossible  without  continual  change  of  matter,  and  can- 
not exist  if  it  does  not  receive  perpetual  help  from  without. 
This  is  the  realm  oi  finality ;  and  its  opposite  would  be  an 
infinite  existence,  exposed  to  no  attack  from  without,  and 
needing  nothing  to  support  it  ;  dri  uadvTui  dv,  the  realm  of 
eternal  peace  ;  aire  ytyvnfievov  ovre  uno/iAviitvov,  some  timeless, 
changeless  state,  one  and  undi versified  ;  the  negative  knowl- 
edge of  which  forms  the  dominant  note  of  the  Platonic  philos- 
ophy. It  is  to  some  such  state  as  this  that  the  denial  of  the 
will  to  live  opens  up  the  way. 

The  scenes  of  our  life  are  like  pi6lures  done  in  rough  mosaic. 
Looked  at  close,  they  produce  no  effect.  There  is  nothing 
beautiful  to  be  found  in  them,  unless  you  stand  some  distance 
off.  So,  to  gain  anything  we  have  longed  for  is  only  to  dis- 
cover how  vain  and  empty  it  is  ;  and  even  though  we  are 
always  living  in  expectation  of  better  things,  at  the  same  time 
we  often  repent  and  long  to  have  the  past  back  again.  We 
look  upon  the  present  as  something  to  be  put  up  with  while  it 
lasts,  and  serving  only  as  the  way  towards  our  goal.  Hence 
most  people,  if  they  glance  back  when  they  come  to  the  end 
of  life,  will  find  that  all  along  they  have  been  living  ad  interim  : 


THE   VANITY    OF   EXISTENCE.  25 

they  will  be  surprised  to  find  that  the  very  thing  they  disre- 
garded and  let  slip  by  unenjoyed,  was  just  the  life  in  the 
expedation  of  which  they  passed  all  their  time.  Of  how  many 
a  man  may  it  not  be  said  that  hope  made  a  fool  of  him  until  he 
danced  into  the  arms  of  death  ! 

Then  again,  how  insatiable  a  creature  is  man  !  Every  satis- 
fa6lion  he  attains  lays  the  seeds  of  some  new  desire,  so  that 
there  is  no  end  to  the  wishes  of  each  individual  will.  And  why 
is  this?  The  real  reason  is  simply  that,  taken  in  itself,  Will  is 
the  lord  of  all  worlds  :  everything  belongs  to  it,  and  therefore 
no  one  single  thing  can  ever  give  it  satisfa6lion,  but  only  the 
whole,  which  is  endless.  For  all  that,  it  must  rouse  our  sym- 
pathy to  think  how  very  little  the  Will,  this  lord  of  the  world, 
really  gets  when  it  takes  the  form  of  an  individual ;  usually  only 
just  enough  to  keep  the  body  together.  This  is  why  man  is 
so  very  miserable. 

Life  presents  itself  chiefly  as  a  task — the  task,  I  mean,  of 
subsisting  at  all,  gagner  sa  vie.  If  this  is  accomplished,  life  is 
a  burden,  and  then  there  comes  the  second  task  of  doing  some- 
thing with  that  which  has  been  won — of  warding  off  boredom, 
which,  like  a  bird  of  prey,  hovers  over  us,  ready  to  fall  wher- 
ever it  sees  a  life  secure  from  need.  The  first  task  is  to  win 
something  ;  the  second,  to  banish  the  feeling  that  it  has  been 
won  ;  otherwise  it  is  a  burden. 

Human  hfe  must  be  some  kind  of  mistake.  The  truth  of 
this  will  be  sufficiently  obvious  if  we  only  remember  that  man 
is  a  compound  of  needs  and  necessities  hard  to  satisfy  ;  and 
that  even  when  they  are  satisfied,  all  he  obtains  is  a  state  of 
painlessness,  where  nothing  remains  to  him  but  abandonment 
to  boredom.  This  is  direct  proof  that  existence  has  no  real 
value  in  itself ;  for  what  is  boredom  but  the  feeling  of  the 
emptiness  of  life  ?  If  life — the  craving  for  which  is  the  very  es- 
sence of  our  being — were  possessed  of  any  positive  intrinsic 
value,  there  would  be  no  such  thing  as  boredom  at  all  :  mere 
existence  would  satisfiy  us  in  itself,  and  we  should  want  for 
nothing.  But  as  it  is,  we  take  no  delight  in  existence  except 
when  we  are  struggling  for  something  ;  and  then  distance  and 


26  STUDIES    IN   PESSIMISM. 

difficulties  to  be  overcome  make  our  goal  look  as  though  it 
would  satisfy  us — an  illusion  which  vanishes  when  we  reach  it  ; 
or  else  when  we  are  occupied  with  some  purely  intelle6lual  in- 
terest— where  in  reality  we  have  stepped  forth  from  life  to  look 
upon  it  from  the  outside,  much  after  the  manner  of  spectators 
at  a  play.  And  even  sensual  pleasure  itself  means  nothing  but 
a  struggle  and  aspiration,  ceasing  the  moment  its  aim  is  attained. 
Whenever  we  are  not  occupied  in  one  of  these  ways,  but  cast 
upon  existence  itself,  its  vain  and  worthless  nature  is  brought 
home  to  us  ;  and  this  is  what  we  mean  by  boredom.  The 
hankering  after  what  is  strange  and  uncommon — an  innate  and 
ineradicable  tendency  of  human  nature — shows  how  glad  we 
are  at  any  interruption  of  that  natural  course  of  affairs  which  is 
so  very  tedious. 

That  this  most  perfe6l  manifestation  of  the  will  to  live,  the 
human  organism,  with  the  cunning  and  complex  working  of  its 
machinery,  must  fall  to  dust  and  yield  up  itself  and  all  its  striv- 
ings to  extinction — this  is  the  naive  way  in  which  Nature,  who 
is  always  so  true  and  sincere  in  what  she  says,  proclaims  the 
whole  struggle  of  this  will  as  in  its  very  essence  barren  and  un- 
profitable. Were  it  of  any  value  in  itself,  anything  uncon- 
ditioned and  absolute,  it  could  not  thus  end  in  mere  nothing. 

If  we  turn  from  contemplating  the  world  as  a  whole,  and,  in 
particular,  the  generations  of  men  as  they  live  their  little  hour 
of  mock-existence  and  then  are  swept  away  in  rapid  succession  ; 
if  we  turn  from  this,  and  look  at  life  in  its  small  details,  as  pre- 
sented, say,  in  a  comedy,  how  ridiculous  it  all  seems  !  It  is 
like  a  drop  of  water  seen  through  a  microscope,  a  single  drop 
teeming  with  infusoria  ;  or  a  speck  of  cheese  full  of  mites  in- 
visible to  the  naked  eye.  How  we  laugh  as  they  bustle  about 
so  eagerly,  and  struggle  with  one  another  is  so  tiny  a  space  ! 
And  whether  here,  or  in  the  little  span  of  human  life,  this 
terrible  aClivity  produces  a  comic  effe6t. 

It  is  only  in  the  microscope  that  our  life  looks  so  big.  It  is 
an  indivisible  point,  drawn  out  and  magnified  by  the  powerful 
lenses  of  Time  and  Space. 


ON  SUICIDE. 

As  far  as  I  know,  none  but  the  votaries  of  monotheistic, 
that  is  to  say,  Jewish  religions,  look  upon  suicide  as 
a  crime.  This  is  all  the  more  striking,  inasmuch  as  neither 
in  the  Old  nor  in  the  New  Testament  is  there  to  be  found  any 
prohibition  or  positive  disapproval  of  it ;  so  that  religious 
teachers  are  forced  to  base  their  condemnation  of  suicide  on 
philosophical  grounds  of  their  own  invention.  These  are  so 
very  bad  that  writers  of  this  kind  endeavor  to  make  up  for  the 
weakness  of  their  arguments  by  the  strong  terms  in  which  they 
express  their  abhorrence  of  the  pra6lice  ;  in  other  words,  they 
declaim  against  it.  They  tell  us  that  suicide  is  the  greatest 
piece  of  cowardice  ;  that  only  a  madman  could  be  guilty  of  it ; 
and  other  insipidities  of  the  same  kind  ;  or  else  they  make  the 
nonsensical  remark  that  suicide  is  wrong ;  when  it  is  quite 
obvious  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  to  which  every  man 
has  a  more  unassailable  title  than  to  his  own  life  and  person. 

Suicide,  as  I  have  said,  is  a6lually  accounted  a  crime  ;  and 
a  crime  which,  especially  under  the  vulgar  bigotry  that  prevails 
in  England,  is  followed  by  an  ignominious  burial  and  the 
seizure  of  the  man's  property ;  and  for  that  reason,  in  a  case 
of  suicide,  the  jury  almost  always  bring  in  a  verdi6l  of  insanity. 
Now  let  the  reader's  own  moral  feelings  decide  as  to  whether 
or  not  suicide  is  a  criminal  a6^.  Think  of  the  impression  that 
would  be  made  upon  you  by  the  news  that  some  one  you  know 
had  committed  the  crime,  say,  of  murder  or  theft,  or  been 
guilty  of  some  adl  of  cruelty  or  deception  ;  and  compare  it  with 
your  feelings  when  you  hear  that  he  has  met  a  voluntary  death. 

While  in  the  one  case  a  lively  sense  of  indignation  and  extreme 

(27) 


28  STUDIES   IN    PESSIMISM. 

resentment  will  be  aroused,  and  you  will  call  loudly  for  punish- 
ment or  revenge,  in  the  other  you  will  be  moved  to  grief  and 
sympathy  ;  and  mingled  with  your  thoughts  will  be  admiration 
for  his  courage,  rather  than  the  moral  disapproval  which  follows 
upon  a  wicked  adion.  Who  has  not  had  acquaintances, 
friends,  relations,  who  of  their  own  free  will  have  left  this 
world  ;  and  are  these  to  be  thought  of  with  horror  as  crimin- 
als ?  Most  emphatically,  No  !  I  am  rather  of  opinion  that 
the  clergy  should  be  challenged  to  explain  what  right  they 
have  to  go  into  the  pulpit,  or  take  up  their  pens,  and  stamp  as 
a  crime  an  action  which  many  men  whom  we  hold  in  affeftion 
and  honor  have  committed  ;  and  to  refuse  an  honorable  burial 
to  those  who  relinquish  this  world  voluntarily.  They  have  no 
Biblical  authority  to  boast  of,  as  justifying  their  condemnation 
of  suicide  ;  nay,  not  even  any  philosophical  arguments  that 
will  hold  water  ;  and  it  must  be  understood  that  it  is  arguments 
we  want,  and  that  we  will  not  be  put  off  with  mere  phrases  or 
words  of  abuse.  If  the  criminal  law  forbids  suicide,  that  is  not 
an  argument  valid  in  the  Church  ;  and  besides,  the  prohibition 
is  ridiculous  ;  for  what  penalty  can  frighten  a  man  who  is  not 
afraid  of  death  itself?  If  the  law  punishes  people  for  trying  to 
commit  suicide,  it  is  punishing  the  want  of  skill  that  makes  the 
attempt  a  failure. 

The  ancients,  moreover,  were  very  far  from  regarding  the 
matter  in  that  light.  Pliny  says  :  Life  is  not  so  desirable  a 
thing  as  to  be  protra6led  at  any  cost.  Whoever  you  are,  you 
are  sure  to  die,  even  though  your  life  has  been  full  of  abomina- 
tion and  crime.  The  chief  of  all  remedies  for  a  troubled  mirid 
is  the  feeling  that  amo7ig  the  blessings  which  Nature  gives  to 
mafi.  there  is  none  greater  than  ati  opportune  death ;  and  the 
best  of  it  is  that  every  one  can  avail  himself  of  it.^  And  else- 
where the  same  writer  declares  :  Not  even  to  God  are  all  things 
possible;  for  he  could  not  compass  his  own  death,  if  he  willed  to 
die,  and  yet  in  all  the  miseries  of  our  earthly  life,  this  is  the 
best  of  his  gifts  to  man.*    Nay,  in  Massilia  and  on  the  isle  of 

•  Hist.  Nai.  Lib.  xxviii.,  i.  •  Loc.  cit.  Lib.  ii.  c.  7. 


ON  SUICIDE.  29 

Ceos,  the  man  who  could  give  valid  reasons  for  relinquishing 
his  life,  was  handed  the  cup  of  hemlock  by  the  magistrate  ;  and 
that,  too,  in  public'  And  in  ancient  times,  how  many  heroes 
and  wise  men  died  a  voluntary  death,  Aristotle,'  it  is  true, 
declared  suicide  to  be  an  offence  against  the  State,  although 
not  against  the  person  ;  but  in  Stobaeus'  exposition  of  the 
Peripatetic  philosophy  there  is  the  following  remark  :  The 
good  man  should  flee  life  when  his  misfortunes  becom.e  too  great  ; 
the  bad  man,  also,  when  he  is  too  prosperous.  And  similarly  : 
So  he  will  m.arry  and  beget  children  and  take  part  in  the  affairs 
of  the  State,  and,  generally,  praHice  virtue  atid  continue  to  live  ; 
and  then,  again,  if  7ieed  be,  and  at  any  tim£  necessity  com.pels 
him,  he  will  depart  to  his  place  of  refuge  in  the  tomb.*  And 
we  find  that  the  Stoics  actually  praised  suicide  as  a  noble  and 
heroic  action,  as  hundreds  of  passages  show  ;  above  all  in  the 
works  of  Seneca,  who  expresses  the  strongest  approval  of  it. 
As  is  well  known,  the  Hindoos  look  upon  suicide  as  a  religious 
act,  especially  when  it  takes  the  form  of  self-immolation  by 
widows  ;  but  also  when  it  consists  in  casting  oneself  under  the 
wheels  of  the  chariot  of  the  god  at  Juggernaut,  or  being  eaten  by 
crocodiles  in  the  Ganges,  or  being  drowned  in  the  holy  tanks  in 
the  temples,  and  so  on.  The  same  thing  occurs  on  the  stage — 
that  mirror  of  life.  For  example,  in  Z'  Orphelin  de  la  Chifie,* 
a  celebrated  Chinese  play,  almost  all  the  noble  characters  end 
by  suicide  ;  without  the  slightest  hint  anywhere,  or  any  impres- 
sion being  produced  on  the  spectator,  that  they  are  committing 
a  crime.  And  in  our  own  theatre  it  is  much  the  same — 
Palmira,  for  instance,  in  Mahomet,  or  Mortimer  in  Maria 
Stuart,  Othello,  Countess  Terzky.*     Is  Hamlet's  monologue 

'  Valerius  Maximus  ;  hist.  Lib.  ii.,  c.  6,  §  7  et  8.  Heraclides  Ponticus; 
fragmenta  de  rebus  publicis,  ix.  Aeliani  variae  historiae,  iii.,  37. 
Strabo  ;  Lib.  x.,  c.  5,  6. 

*  Eth.  Nichotn.,  v.  15. 

'  Stobaeus.    Eel.  Eth.  ii.,  c.  7,  pp.  286,  312. 

*  Traduit  par  St.  Julien,  1834. 

*  Translator' s  Note.  Palmira  :  a  female  slave  in  Goethe's  play  of 
Mahomet.  Mortimer :  a  would-be  lover  and  rescuer  of  Mary  in 
Schiller's  Maria  Stuart.  Countess  Terzky :  a  leading  character  in 
Schiller's  WaUenstein's  Tod. 


so  STUDIES   IN   PESSIMISM. 

the  meditation  of  a  criminal?  He  merely  declares  that  if  we 
had  any  certainty  of  being  annihilated  by  it,  death  would 
be  infinitely  preferable  to  the  world  as  it  is.  But  ^herg  lies 
the  rub  f 

The  reasons  advanced  against  suicide  by  the  clergy  of 
monotheistic,  that  is  to  say,  Jewish  religions,  and  by  those 
philosophers  who  adapt  themselves  thereto,  are  weak  sophisms 
which  can  easily  be  refuted.*  The  most  thorough-going  refuta- 
tion of  them  is  given  by  Hume  in  his  Essay  on  Suicide.  This 
did  not  appear  until  after  his  death,  when  it  was  immediately 
suppressed,  owing  to  the  scandalous  bigotry  and  outrageous 
ecclesiastical  tyranny  that  prevailed  in  England  ;  and  hence 
only  a  very  few  copies  of  it  were  sold  under  cover  of  secrecy 
and  at  a  high  price.  This  and  another  treatise  by  that  great 
man  have  come  to  us  from  Basle,  and  we  may  be  thankful  for 
the  reprint.'  It  is  a  great  disgrace  to  the  English  nation  that 
a  purely  philosophical  treatise,  which,  proceeding  from  one  of 
the  first  thinkers  and  writers  in  England,  aimed  at  refuting  the 
current  arguments  against  suicide  by  the  light  of  cold  reason, 
should  be  forced  to  sneak  about  in  that  country,  as  though  it 
were  some  rascally  production,  until  at  last  it  found  refuge  on 
the  Continent.  At  the  same  time  it  shows  what  a  good  con- 
science the  Church  has  in  such  matters. 

In  my  chief  work  I  have  explained  the  only  valid  reason 
existing  against  suicide  on  the  score  of  morality.  It  is  this  : 
that  suicide  thwarts  the  attainment  of  the  highest  moral  aim  by 
the  fact  that,  for  a  real  release  from  this  world  of  misery,  it 
substitutes  one  that  is  merely  apparent.  But  from  a  mistake 
to  a  crime  is  a  far  cry  ;  and  it  is  as  a  crime  that  the  clergy 
of  Christendom  wish  us  to  regard  suicide. 

The  inmost  kernel  of  Christianity  is  the  truth  that  suffering — 
the  Cross — is  the  real  end  and  objedl  of  life.  Hence  Christianity 
condemns  suicide  as  thwarting  this  end  ;  whilst  the  ancient 

>  See  my  treatise  on  the  Foundation  of  Morals,  I  5. 

»  Essays  on  Suicide  and  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul,  by  the  late 
David  Hume,  Basle,  1799,  sold  by  James  Decker. 


ON   SUICIDE.  31 

world,  taking  a  lower  point  of  view,  held  it  in  approval,  nay, 
in  honor.*  But  if  that  is  to  be  accounted  a  valid  reason  against 
suicide,  it  involves  the  recognition  of  asceticism  ;  that  is  to 
say,  it  is  valid  only  from  a  much  higher  ethical  standpoint  than 
has  ever  been  adopted  by  moral  philosophers  in  Europe.  If 
we  abandon  that  high  standpoint,  there  is  no  tenable  reason 
left,  on  the  score  of  morality,  for  condemning  suicide.  The 
extraordinary  energy  and  zeal  with  which  the  clergy  of  mono- 
theistic religions  attack  suicide  is  not  supported  either  by  any 
passages  in  the  Bible  or  by  any  considerations  of  weight ;  so 
that  it  looks  as  though  they  must  have  some  secret  reason  for 
their  contention.  May  it  not  be  this — that  the  voluntary  sur- 
render of  life  is  a  bad  compliment  for  him  who  said  that  all 
things  were  very  good?  If  this  is  so,  it  offers  another  instance 
of  the  crass  optimism  of  these  religions, — denouncing  suicide  to 
escape  being  denounced  by  it. 

It  will  generally  be  found  that,  as  soon  as  the  terrors  of  life 
reach  the  point  at  which  they  outweigh  the  terrors  of  death,  a 
man  will  put  an  end  to  his  life.  But  the  terrors  of  death  offer 
considerable  resistance  ;  they  stand  like  a  sentinel  at  the  gate 
leading  out  of  this  world.  Perhaps  there  is  no  man  alive  who 
would  not  have  already  put  an  end  to  his  life,  if  this  end  had 
been  of  a  purely  negative  character,  a  sudden  stoppage  of  ex- 
istence. There  is  something  positive  about  it ;  it  is  the 
destruction  of  the  body  ;  and  a  man  shrinks  from  that,  because 
his  body  is  the  manifestation  of  the  will  to  live. 

However,  the  struggle  with  that  sentinel  is,  as  a  rule,  not  so 

hard  as  it  may  seem  from  a  long  way  off,  mainly  in  consequence 

'  Translator' s  Note  Schopenhauer  refers  to  Die  Welt  als  Wille 
und  Vorstellung,  vol.  i.,  \  69,  where  the  reader  may  find  the  same 
argument  stated  at  somewhat  greater  length.  According  to  Schopen- 
hauer, moral  freedom — the  highest  ethical  aim — is  to  be  obtained 
only  by  a  denial  of  the  will  to  live.  Far  from  being  a  denial,  suicide 
is  an  emphatic  assertion  of  this  will.  For  it  is  in  fleeing  from  the 
pleasures,  not  from  the  sufferings  of  life,  that  this  denial  consists. 
When  a  man  destroys  his  existence  as  an  individual,  he  is  not  by  any 
means  destroying  his  will  to  live.  On  the  contrary,  he  would  like  to 
live  if  he  could  do  so  with  satisfaction  to  himself;  if  he  could  assert 
his  will  against  the  power  of  circumstance ;  but  circumstance  is  too 
strong  for  him. 


32  STUDIES   IN    PESSIMISM. 

of  the  antagonism  between  the  ills  of  the  body  and  the  ills  of 
the  mind.  If  we  are  in  great  bodily  pain,  or  the  pain  lasts  a 
long  time,  we  become  indifferent  to  other  troubles  ;  all  we 
think  about  is  to  get  well.  In  the  same  way  great  mental 
suffering  makes  us  insensible  to  bodily  pain  ;  we  despise  it ; 
nay,  if  it  should  outweigh  the  other,  it  distrads  our  thoughts, 
and  we  welcome  it  as  a  pause  in  mental  suffering.  It  is  this 
feeling  that  makes  suicide  easy  ;  for  the  bodily  pain  that  ac- 
companies it  loses  all  significance  in  the  eyes  of  one  who  is 
tortured  by  an  excess  of  mental  suffering.  This  is  especially 
evident  in  the  case  of  those  who  are  driven  to  suicide  by  some 
.  purely  morbid  and  exaggerated  ill-humor.  No  special  effort 
to  overcome  their  feelings  is  necessary,  nor  do  such  people  re- 
quire to  be  worked  up  in  order  to  take  the  step  ;  but  as  soon 
as  the  keeper  into  whose  charge  they  are  given  leaves  them  for 
a  couple  of  minutes,  they  quickly  bring  their  life  to  an  end. 

When,  in  some  dreadful  and  ghastly  dream,  we  reach  the 
moment  of  greatest  horror,  it  awakes  us  ;  thereby  banishing  all 
the  hideous  shapes  that  were  born  of  the  night.  And  life  is  a 
dream :  when  the  moment  of  greatest  horror  compels  us  to 
break  it  off,  the  same  thing  happens. 

Suicide  may  also  be  regarded  as  an  experiment — a  question 
which  man  puts  to  Nature,  trying  to  force  her  to  an  answer. 
The  question  is  this  :  What  change  will  death  produce  in  a 
man's  existence  and  in  his  insight  into  the  nature  of  things? 
It  is  a  clumsy  experiment  to  make  ;  for  it  involves  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  very  consciousness  which  puts  the  question  and 
awaits  the  answer. 


IMMORTALITY :'    A  DIALOGUE. 

Thrasymachos — Philalethes. 

Thrasymachos .  Tell  me  now,  in  one  word,  what  shall  I  be 
after  my  death  ?     And  mind  you  be  clear  and  precise. 

Philalethes.     All  and  nothing  ! 

Thrasymachos.  I  thought  so  !  I  gave  you  a  problem,  and 
you  solve  it  by  a  contradidlion.     That's  a  very  stale  trick. 

Philalethes.  Yes,  but  you  raise  transcendental  questions, 
and  you  expe6l  me  to  answer  them  in  language  that  is  only 
made  for  immanent  knowledge.  It's  no  wonder  that  a  contra- 
diction ensues. 

Thrasymachos.  What  do  you  mean  by  transcendental 
questions  and  immanent  knowledge  ?  I've  heard  these  expres- 
sions before,  of  course  ;  they  are  not  new  to  me.  The 
Professor  was  fond  of  using  them,  but  only  as  predicates  of 
the  Deity,  and  he  never  talked  of  anything  else  ;  which  was 
all  quite  right  and  proper.  He  argued  thus  :  if  the  Deity  was 
in  the  world  itself,  he  was  immanent ;  if  he  was  somewhere 
outside  it,  he  was  transcendent.  Nothing  could  be  clearer 
and  more  obvious  !     You  knew  where  you  were.     But  this 

'  Translator's  Note.  The  word  immortality  ~  [/nster6ltchkeit — 
does  not  occur  in  the  original ;  nor  would  it,  in  its  usual  application, 
find  a  place  in  Schopenhauer's  vocabulary.  The  word  he  uses  is 
Unzerst'orbarkeit — indestru£libility.  But  I  have  preferred  imtnortality, 
because  that  word  is  commonly  associated  with  the  subjecl:  touched 
upon  in  this  little  debate.  If  any  critic  doubts  the  wisdom  of  this 
preference,  let  me  ask  him  to  try  his  hand  at  a  short,  concise,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  popularly  intelligible  rendering  of  the  German  original, 
which  runs  thus  :  Z:ir  Lehre  von  der  Unzerstorbarkeit unseres  wahren 
We  sens  durch  den  Tod:  kleine  dialogische  Schlussbelustigung. 

(33) 


34  STUDIES    IN    PESSIMISM. 

Kantian  rigmarole  won't  do  any  more  :  it's  antiquated  and  no 
longer  applicable  to  modern  ideas.  Why,  we've  had  a  whole 
row  of  eminent  men  in  the  metropolis  of  German  learning — 

Philalethes.     (aside.)     German  humbug,  he  means. 

Thrasymachos. — The  mighty  Schleiermacher,  for  instance, 
and  that  gigantic  intelled,  Hegel ;  and  at  this  time  of  day 
we've  abandoned  that  nonsense.  I  should  rather  say  we're  so 
far  beyond  it  that  we  can't  put  up  with  it  any  more.  What's 
the  use  of  it  then  ?     What  does  it  all  mean  ? 

Philalethes.  Transcendental  knowledge  is  knowledge  which 
passes  beyond  the  bounds  of  possible  experience,  and  strives 
to  determine  the  nature  of  things  as  they  are  in  themselves. 
Immanent  knowledge,  on  the  other  hand,  is  knowledge  which 
confines  itself  entirely  within  those  bounds  ;  so  that  it  cannot 
apply  to  anything  but  a6lual  phenomena.  As  far  as  you  are 
an  individual,  death  will  be  the  end  of  you.  But  your  individ- 
uaHty  is  not  your  true  and  inmost  being :  it  is  only  the 
outward  manifestation  of  it.  It  is  not  the  thing -in-itself\  but 
only  the  phenomenon  presented  in  the  form  of  time  ;  and  there- 
fore with  a  beginning  and  an  end.  But  your  real  being  knows 
neither  time,  nor  beginning,  nor  end,  nor  yet  the  limits  of  any 
given  individual.  It  is  everywhere  present  in  every  individual ; 
and  no  individual  can  exist  apart  from  it.  So  when  death 
comes,  on  the  one  hand  you  are  annihilated  as  an  individual  ; 
on  the  other,  you  are  and  remain  everything.  That  is  what  I 
meant  when  I  said  that  after  your  death  you  would  be  all  and 
nothing.  It  is  difficult  to  find  a  more  precise  answer  to  your 
question  and  at  the  same  time  be  brief  The  answer  is  con- 
tradi6lory,  I  admit  ;  but  it  is  so  simply  because  your  life  is  in 
time,  and  the  immortal  part  of  you  in  eternity.  You  may  put 
the  matter  thus  :  Your  immortal  part  is  something  that  does 
not  last  in  time  and  yet  is  indestru6lible  ;  but  there  you  have 
another  contradi6lion  !  You  see  what  happens  by  trying  to 
bring  the  transcendental  within  the  limits  of  immanent  knowl- 
edge. It  is  in  some  sort  doing  violence  to  the  latter  by 
misusing  it  for  ends  it  was  never  meant  to  serve. 


IMMORTALITY.  35 

Thrasymachos.  Look  here,  I  shan't  give  twopence  for  your 
immortality  unless  I'm  to  remain  an  individual. 

Philalethes.  Well,  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  satisfy  you  on 
this  point.  Suppose  I  guarantee  that  after  death  you  shall 
remain  an  individual,  but  only  on  condition  that  you  first 
spend  three  months  of  complete  unconsciousness. 

Thrasymachos.     I  shall  have  no  objedlion  to  that. 

Philalethes.  But  remember,  if  people  are  completely  uncon- 
scious, they  take  no  account  of  time.  So,  when  you  are  dead, 
it's  all  the  same  to  you  whether  three  months  pass  in  the  world 
of  consciousness,  or  ten  thousand  years.  In  the  one  case  as 
in  the  other,  it  is  simply  a  matter  of  believing  what  is  told  you 
when  you  awake.  So  far,  then,  you  can  afford  to  be  indiffer- 
ent whether  it  is  three  months  or  ten  thousand  years  that  pass 
before  you  recover  your  individuality. 

Thrasymachos.  Yes,  if  it  comes  to  that,  I  suppose  you're 
right. 

Philalethes.  And  if  by  chance,  after  those  ten  thousand 
years  have  gone  by,  no  one  ever  thinks  of  awakenmg  you,  I 
fancy  it  would  be  no  great  misfortune.  You  would  have  be- 
come quite  accustomed  to  non-existence  after  so  long  a  spell 
of  it — following  upon  such  a  very  few  years  of  life.  At  any 
rate  you  may  be  sure  you  would  be  perfedlly  ignorant  of  the 
whole  thing.  Further,  if  you  knew  that  the  mysterious  power 
which  keeps  you  in  your  present  state  of  life  had  never  once 
ceased  in  those  ten  thousand  years  to  bring  forth  other  phe- 
nomena like  yourself,  and  to  endow  them  with  life,  it  would 
fully  console  you. 

Thrasymachos.  Indeed  !  So  you  think  you're  quietly 
going  to  do  me  out  of  my  individuality  with  all  this  fine  talk. 
But  I'm  up  to  your  tricks.  I  tell  you  I  won't  exist  unless  I 
can  have  my  individuality.  I'm  not  going  to  be  put  off  with 
*  mysterious  powers,'  and  what  you  call  'phenomena.'  I  can't 
do  without  my  individuality,  and  I  won't  give  it  up. 

Philalethes.  You  mean,  I  suppose,  that  your  individuality 
is  such  a  delightful  thing,  so  splendid,  so  perfed,  and  beyond 


36  STUDIES    IN   PESSIMISM. 

compare — that  you  can't  imagine  anything  better.  Aren't 
you  ready  to  exchange  your  present  state  for  one  which,  if  we 
can  judge  by  what  is  told  us,  may  possibly  be  superior  and 
more  endurable? 

Thrasymachos.  Don't  you  see  that  my  individuality,  be  it 
what  it  may,  is  my  very  self?  To  me  it  is  the  most  important 
thing  in  the  world, 

Fdr  God  is  God  and  lam  J. 

I  want  to  exist,  /,  /.  That's  the  main  thing,  I  don't  care 
about  an  existence  which  has  to  be  proved  to  be  mine,  before 
I  can  believe  it. 

Philalethes.  Think  what  you'  re  doing  !  When  you  say  I^ 
/  /  want  to  exist,  it  is  not  you  alone  that  says  this.  Everything 
says  it,  absolutely  everything  that  has  the  faintest  trace  of  con- 
sciousness. It  follows,  then,  that  this  desire  of  yours  is  just 
the  part  of  you  that  is  not  individual — the  part  that  is  common 
to  all  things  without  distin(5lion.  It  is  the  cry,  not  of  the  in- 
dividual, but  of  existence  itself ;  it  is  the  intrinsic  element  in 
everything  that  exists,  nay,  it  is  the  cause  of  anything  existing 
at  all.  This  desire  craves  for,  and  so  is  satisfied  with,  nothing 
less  than  existence  in  general — not  any  definite  individual  ex- 
istence. No  !  that  is  not  its  aim.  It  seems  to  be  so  only 
because  this  desire — this  Will — attains  consciousness  only  in 
the  individual,  and  therefore  looks  as  though  it  were  con- 
cerned with  nothing  but  the  individual.  There  lies  the  illusion 
— an  illusion,  it  is  true,  in  which  the  individual  is  held  fast : 
but,  if  he  refleds,  he  can  break  the  fetters  and  set  himself  free. 
It  is  only  indiredlly,  I  say,  that  the  individual  has  this  violent 
craving  for  existence.  It  is /^  W^7//<?  Z,zW  which  is  the  real 
and  dire6l  aspirant — alike  and  identical  in  all  things.  Since, 
then,  existence  is  the  free  work,  nay,  the  mere  refledion  of  the 
will,  where  existence  is,  there,  too,  must  be  will  ;  and  for  the 
moment,  the  will  finds  its  satisfa6lion  in  existence  itself ;  so  far, 
I  mean,  as  that  which  never  rests,  but  presses  forward  eternally, 
can  ever  find  any  satisfa6lion  at  all.  The  will  is  careless  of  the 
individual :  the  individual  is  not  its  business  ;  although,  as  I 


IMMORTALITY.  37 

have  said,  this  seems  to  be  the  case,  because  the  individual 
has  no  diredl  consciousness  of  will  except  in  himself.  The 
effeS.  of  this  is  to  make  the  individual  careful  to  maintain  his 
own  existence  ;  and  if  this  were  not  so,  there  would  be  no 
surety  for  the  preservation  of  the  species.  From  all  this  it  is 
clear  that  individuality  is  not  a  form  of  perfe<5tion,  but  rather 
of  limitation  ;  and  so  to  be  freed  from  it  is  not  loss  but  gain. 
Trouble  yourself  no  more  about  the  matter.  Once  thoroughly 
recognize  what  you  are,  what  your  existence  really  is,  namely, 
the  universal  will  to  live,  and  the  whole  question  will  seem  to 
you  childish,  and  most  ridiculous  ! 

Thrasymachos.  You're  childish  yourself,  and  most  ridicu- 
lous, like  all  philosophers  !  and  if  a  man  of  my  age  lets  himself 
in  for  a  quarter-of-an-hour's  talk  with  such  fools,  it  is  only  be- 
cause it  amuses  me  and  passes  the  time.  I've  more  important 
business  to  attend  to,  so  Good-bye. 


PSYCHOLOGICAL  OBSERVATIONS. 

THERE  is  an  unconscious  proprietj'^  in  the  way  in  which, 
in  all  European  languages,  the  word  person  is  commonly 
used  to  denote  a  human  being.  The  real  meaning  of  persona 
is  a  mask,  such  as  actors  were  accustomed  to  wear  on  the 
ancient  stage  ;  and  it  is  quite  true  that  no  one  shows  himself 
as  he  is,  but  wears  his  mask  and  plays  his  part.  Indeed,  the 
whole  of  our  social  arrangements  may  be  likened  to  a  per- 
petual comedy  ;  and  this  is  why  a  man  who  is  worth  anything 
finds  society  so  insipid,  while  a  blockhead  is  quite  at  home 
in  it. 

Reason  deserves  to  be  called  a  prophet  ;  for  in  showing  us 
the  consequence  and  effeft  of  our  adlions  in  the  present,  does 
it  not  tell  us  what  the  future  will  be  ?  This  is  precisely  why 
reason  is  such  an  excellent  power  of  restraint  in  moments 
when  we  are  possessed  by  some  base  passion,  some  fit  of  anger, 
some  covetous  desire,  that  will  lead  us  to  do  things  whereof 
we  must  presently  repent. 

•  •••••• 

Hatred  comes  from  the  heart ;  contempt  from  the  head  ;  and 
neither  feeling  is  quite  within  our  control.  For  we  cannot  alter 
our  heart ;  its  bias  is  determined  by  motives  ;  and  our  head 
deals  with  obje6live  fa6ls,  and  applies  to  them  rules  which  are 
immutable.  Any  given  individual  is  the  union  of  a  particular 
heart  with  a  particular  head. 

Hatred  and  contempt  are  diametrically  opposed  and  mutually 
exclusive.     There  are  even  not  a  few  cases  where  hatred  of  a 

(38) 


PSYCHOLOGICAL  OBSERVATIONS.  39 

person  is  rooted  in  nothing  but  forced  esteem  for  his  qualities. 
And  besides,  if  a  man  sets  out  to  hate  all  the  miserable  creat- 
ures he  meets,  he  will  not  have  much  energy  left  for  anything 
else  :  whereas  he  can  despise  them,  one  and  all,  with  the 
greatest  ease.  True,  genuine  contempt  is  just  the  reverse  of 
true,  genuine  pride  ;  it  keeps  quite  quiet  and  gives  no  sign  of 
its  existence.  For  if  a  man  shows  that  he  despises  you,  he 
signifies  at  least  this  much  regard  for  you,  that  he  wants  to  let 
you  know  how  little  he  appreciates  you  ;  and  his  wish  is 
dictated  by  hatred,  which  cannot  exist  with  real  contempt.  On 
the  contrary,  if  it  is  genuine,  it  is  simply  the  convi6lion  that 
the  object  of  it  is  a  man  of  no  value  at  all.  Contempt  is  not 
incompatible  with  indulgent  and  kindly  treatment,  and  for  the 
sake  of  one's  own  peace  and  safety,  this  should  not  be 
omitted  ;  it  will  prevent  irritation  ;  and  there  is  no  one  who 
cannot  do  harm  if  he  is  roused  to  it.  But  if  this  pure,  cold, 
sincere  contempt  ever  shows  itself,  it  will  be  met  with  the  most 
truculent  hatred  ;  for  the  despised  person  is  not  in  a  position 
to  fight  contempt  with  its  own  weapons. 

Melancholy  is  a  very  different  thing  from  bad  humor,  and  of 
the  two,  it  is  not  nearly  so  far  removed  from  a  gay  and  happy 
temperament.     Melancholy  attra6ls,  while  bad  humor  repels. 

Hypochondria  is  a  species  of  torment  which  not  only  makes 
us  unreasonably  cross  with  the  things  of  the  present ;  not  only 
fills  us  with  groundless  anxiety  on  the  score  of  future  mis- 
fortunes entirely  of  our  own  manufacture  ;  but  also  leads  to 
unmerited  self-reproach  for  what  we  have  done  in  the  past. 

Hypochondria  shows  itself  in  a  perpetual  hunting  after  things 
that  vex  and  annoy,  and  then  brooding  over  them.  The  cause 
of  it  is  an  inward  morbid  discontent,  often  co -existing  with  a 
naturally  restless  temperament.  In  their  extreme  form,  this 
discontent  and  this  unrest  lead  to  suicide. 

Any  incident,  however  trivial,  that  rouses  disagreeable  emo- 
tion, leaves  an  after-effe6l  in  our  mind,  which  for  the  time  it 


40  STUDIES    IN    PESSIMISM. 

lasts,  prevents  our  taking  a  clear  obje6live  view  of  the  things 
about  us,  and  tinges  all  our  thoughts  :  just  as  a  small  objedl 
held  close  to  the  eye  limits  and  distorts  our  field  of  vision. 

What  makes  people  hard-hearted  is  this,  that  each  man  has, 
or  fancies  he  has,  as  much  as  he  can  bear  in  his  own  troubles. 
Hence,  if  a  man  suddenly  finds  himself  in  an  unusually  happy 
position,  it  will  in  most  cases  result  in  his  being  sympathetic 
and  kind.  But  if  he  has  never  been  in  any  other  than  a  happy 
position,  or  this  becomes  his  permanent  state,  the  effe6l  of  it  is 
often  just  the  contrary  :  it  so  far  removes  him  from  suffering  that 
he  is  incapable  of  feeling  any  more  sympathy  with  it.  So  it  is  that 
the  poor  often  show  themselves  more  ready  to  help  than  the  rich. 

At  times  it  seems  as  though  we  both  wanted  and  did  not 
want  the  same  thing,  and  felt  at  once  glad  and  sorry  about  it. 
For  instance,  if  on  some  fixed  date  we  are  going  to  be  put  to 
a  decisive  test  about  anything  in  which  it  would  be  a  great 
advantage  to  us  to  come  off  vi6lorious,  we  shall  be  anxious  for 
it  to  take  place  at  once,  and  at  the  same  time  we  shall  tremble 
at  the  thought  of  its  approach.  And  if,  in  the  meantime,  we 
hear  that,  for  once  in  a  way,  the  date  has  been  postponed,  we 
shall  experience  a  feeling  both  of  pleasure  and  of  annoyance;  for 
the  news  is  disappointing,  but  nevertheless  it  affords  us  moment- 
ary relief.  It  is  just  the  same  thing  if  we  are  expe<5ling  some  im- 
portant letter  carrying  a  definite  decision,  and  it  fails  to  arrive. 

In  such  cases  there  are  really  two  different  motives  at  work 
in  us  ;  the  stronger  but  more  distant  of  the  two  being  the  desire 
to  stand  the  test  and  to  have  the  decision  given  in  our  favor; 
and  the  weaker,  which  touches  us  more  nearly,  the  wish  to  be 
left  for  the  present  in  peace  and  quiet,  and  accordingly  in 
further  enjoyment  of  the  advantage  which  at  any  rate  attaches 
to  a  state  of  hopeful  uncertainty,  compared  with  the  possibility 
that  the  issue  may  be  unfavorable. 


PSYCHOLOGICAL   OBSERVATIONS.  4I 

In  my  head  there  is  a  permanent  opposition -party ;  and  when- 
ever I  take  any  step  or  come  to  any  decision — though  I  may 
have  given  the  matter  mature  consideration — it  afterwards 
attacks  what  I  have  done,  without,  however,  being  each  time 
necessarily  in  the  right.  This  is,  I  suppose,  only  a  form  of 
rectification  on  the  part  of  the  spirit  of  scrutiny  ;  but  it  often 
reproaches  me  when  I  do  not  deserve  it.  The  same  thing,  no 
doubt,  happens  to  many  others  as  well  ;  for  where  is  the  man 
who  can  help  thinking  that,  after  all,  it  were  better  not  to  have 
done  something  that  he  did  with  great  deliberation  : — 

Qnid  tarn  dextro  pede  concipis  ut  te 
Conatus  non  poeniteat  votique  peraEli  f 

Why  is  it  that  common  is  an  expression  of  contempt  ?  and 
that  uncomm.on,  extraordinary,  distinguished,  denote  appro- 
bation ?     Why  is  everything  that  is  common  contemptible  ? 

Common  in  its  original  meaning  denotes  that  which  is  pecu- 
liar to  all  men,  i.  <?.,  shared  equally  by  the  whole  species,  and 
therefore  an  inherent  part  of  its  nature.  Accordingly,  if  an 
individual  possesses  no  qualities  beyond  those  which  attach  to 
mankind  in  general,  he  is  a  common  man.  Ordinary  is  a  much 
milder  word,  and  refers  rather  to  intellectual  character ; 
whereas  common  has  more  of  a  moral  application. 

What  value  can  a  creature  have  that  is  not  a  whit  different 
from  millions  of  its  kind  ?  Millions,  do  I  say  ?  nay  an  infinitude 
of  creatures  which,  century  after  century,  in  never-ending  flow, 
Nature  sends  bubbling  up  from  her  inexhaustible  springs  ;  as 
generous  with  them  as  the  smith  with  the  useless  sparks  that 
fly  around  his  anvil. 

It  is  obviously  quite  right  that  a  creature  which  has  no  quali- 
ties except  those  of  the  species,  should  have  to  confine  its 
claim  to  an  existence  entirely  within  the  limits  of  the  species, 
and  live  a  life  conditioned  by  those  limits. 

In  various  passages  of  my  works,  ^  I  have  argued  that  whilst 

•  Grundprobleme  der  Ethik,  p.  48  ;  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vorstellung, 
vol.  i.  p.  338. 


42  STUDIES   IN    PESSIMISM. 

a  lower  animal  possesses  nothing  more  than  the  generic  char- 
a<5ler  of  its  species,  man  is  the  only  being  which  can  lay  claim 
to  possess  an  individual  chara6ler.  But  in  most  men  this  in- 
dividual character  comes  to  very  little  in  reality  ;  and  they 
may  be  almost  all  ranged  under  certain  classes  :  ce  sont  des 
especes.  Their  thoughts  and  desires,  like  their  faces,  are  those 
of  the  species,  or,  at  any  rate,  those  of  the  class  to  which  they 
belong ;  and  accordingly,  they  are  of  a  trivial,  every-day, 
common  character,  and  exist  by  the  thousand.  You  can 
usually  tell  beforehand  what  they  are  likely  to  do  and  say. 
They  have  no  special  stamp  or  mark  to  distinguish  them ; 
they  are  like  manufactured  goods,  all  of  a  piece. 

If,  then,  their  nature  is  merged  in  that  of  the  species,  how 
shall  their  existence  go  beyond  it  ?  The  curse  of  vulgarity 
puts  men  on  a  par  with  the  lower  animals,  by  allowing  them 
none  but  a  generic  nature,  a  generic  form  of  existence. 

Anything  that  is  high  or  great  or  noble,  must  then,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  by  its  very  nature,  stand  alone  in  a 
world  where  no  better  expression  can  be  found  to  denote  what 
is  base  and  contemptible  than  that  which  I  have  mentioned  as 
in  general  use,  namely,  common. 

Will,  as  the  thing -in-itself,  is  the  foundation  of  all  being ; 
it  is  part  and  parcel  of  every  creature,  and  the  permanent  ele- 
ment in  everything.  Will,  then,  is  that  which  we  possess  in 
common  with  all  men,  nay,  with  all  animals,  and  even  with 
lower  forms  of  existence  ;  and  in  so  far  we  are  akin  to  every- 
thing— so  far,  that  is,  as  everything  is  filled  to  overflowing 
with  will.  On  the  other  hand,  that  which  places  one  being 
over  another,  and  sets  differences  between  man  and  man,  is 
intelle(5l  and  knowledge  ;  therefore  in  every  manifestation  of 
self  we  should,  as  far  as  possible,  give  play  to  the  intelleft 
alone  ;  for,  as  we  have  seen,  the  will  is  the  common  part  of  us. 
Every  violent  exhibition  of  will  is  common  and  vulgar  ;  in 
other  words,  it  reduces  us  to  the  level  of  the  species,  and 
makes  us  a  mere  type  and  example  of  it ;  in  that  it  is  just  the 


PSYCHOLOGICAL  OBSERVATIONS.  43 

charaAer  of  the  species  that  we  are  showing.  So  every  fit  of 
anger  is  something  common — every  unrestrained  display  of  joy, 
or  of  hate,  or  fear — in  short,  every  form  of  emotion  ;  in  other 
words,  every  movement  of  the  will,  if  it  is  so  strong  as  decidedly 
to  outweigh  the  intelledlual  element  in  consciousness,  and  to 
make  the  man  appear  as  a  being  that  wills  rather  than  knows. 

In  giving  way  to  emotion  of  this  violent  kind,  the  greatest 
genius  puts  himself  on  a  level  with  the  commonest  son  of  earth. 
Contrarily,  if  a  man  desires  to  be  absolutely  uncommon,  in 
other  words,  great,  he  should  never  allow  his  consciousness  to 
be  taken  possession  of  and  dominated  by  the  movement  of  his 
will,  however  much  he  may  be  solicited  thereto.  For  example, 
he  must  be  able  to  observe  that  other  people  are  badly  dis- 
posed towards  him,  without  feeling  any  hatred  towards  them 
himself;  nay,  there  is  no  surer  sign  of  a  great  mind  than  that 
it  refuses  to  notice  annoying  and  insulting  expressions,  but 
straightway  ascribes  them,  as  it  ascribes  countless  other  mis- 
takes, to  the  defe6live  knowledge  of  the  speaker,  and  so  merely 
observes  without  feeling  them.  This  is  the  meaning  of  that 
remark  of  Gracian,  that  nothing  is  more  unworthy  of  a  man 
than  to  let  it  be  seen  that  he  is  one — el  mayor  desdoro  de  un 
hombre  es  dar  micestras  de  que  es  hombre. 

And  even  in  the  drama,  which  is  the  peculiar  province  of 
the  passions  and  emotions,  it  is  easy  for  them  to  appear  com- 
mon and  vulgar.  And  this  is  specially  observable  in  the  works 
of  the  French  tragic  writers,  who  set  no  other  aim  before 
themselves  but  the  delineation  of  the  passions  ;  and  by  indulg- 
ing at  one  moment  in  a  vaporous  kind  of  pathos  which  makes 
them  ridiculous,  at  another  in  epigrammatic  witticisms,  en- 
deavor to  conceal  the  vulgarity  of  their  subjeA.  I  remember 
seeing  the  celebrated  Mademoiselle  Rachel  as  Maria  Stuart : 
and  when  she  burst  out  in  fury  against  Elizabeth — though 
she  did  it  very  well — I  could  not  help  thinking  of  a  washer- 
woman. She  played  the  final  parting  in  such  a  way  as  to 
deprive  it  of  all  true  tragic  feeling,  of  which,  indeed,  the  French 
have  no  notion  at  all.    The  same  part  was  incomparably  better 


44  STUDIES  IN    PESSIMISM. 

played  by  the  Italian  Ristori ;  and,  in  fa6l,  the  Italian  nature^ 
though  in  many  respe<5ls  very  different  from  the  German, 
shares  its  appreciation  tor  what  is  deep,  serious,  and  true  in 
Art ;  herein  opposed  to  the  French,  which  everywhere  betrays 
that  it  possesses  none  of  this  feeling  whatever. 

The  noble,  in  other  words,  the  uncommon,  element  in  the 
drama — nay,  what  is  subHme  in  it — is  not  reached  until  the 
intellect  is  set  to  work,  as  opposed  to  the  will ;  until  it  takes 
a  free  flight  over  all  those  passionate  movements  of  the  will, 
and  makes  them  the  subject  of  its  contemplation.  Shakespeare, 
in  particular,  shows  that  this  is  his  general  method,  more  es- 
pecially in  Hamlet.  And  only  when  intelledl  rises  to  the  point 
where  the  vanity  of  all  effort  is  manifest,  and  the  will  proceeds 
to  an  adl  of  self-annulment,  is  the  drama  tragic  in  the  true 
sense  of  the  word  ;  it  is  then  that  it  reaches  its  highest  aim  in 
becoming  really  sublime. 

Every  man  takes  the  limits  of  his  own  field  of  vision  for  the 
limits  of  the  world.  This  is  an  error  of  the  intelle6l  as  inevit- 
able as  that  error  of  the  eye  which  lets  us  fancy  that  on  the 
horizon  heaven  and  earth  meet.  This  explains  many  things, 
and  among  them  the  fa6l  that  everyone  measures  us  with  his 
own  standard — generally  about  as  long  as  a  tailor's  tape,  and 
we  have  to  put  up  with  it :  as  also  that  no  one  will  allow  us  to 
be  taller  than  himself — a  supposition  which  is  once  for  all  taken 
for  granted. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  many  a  man  owes  his  good  fortune 
in  life  solely  to  the  circumstance  that  he  has  a  pleasant  way  of 
smiling,  and  so  wins  the  heart  in  his  favor. 

However,  the  heart  would  do  better  to  be  careful,  and  to 
remember  what  Hamlet  put  down  in  his  tablets — that  one  may 
smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain. 

Everything  that  is  really  fundamental  in  a  man,  and  therefore 
genuine  works,  as  such,  unconsciously  ;   in  this  respect  like  the 


PSYCHOLOGICAL    OBSERVATIONS.  45 

power  of  nature.  That  which  has  passed  through  the  domain 
of  consciousness  is  thereby  transformed  into  an  idea  or  picture  ; 
and  so  if  it  comes  to  be  uttered,  it  is  only  an  idea  or  picture 
which  passes  from  one  person  to  another. 

Accordingly,  any  quality  of  mind  or  chara6ler  that  is  genu- 
ine and  lasting,  is  originally  unconscious  ;  and  it  is  only  when 
unconsciously  brought  into  play  that  it  makes  a  profound 
impression.  If  any  like  quality  is  consciously  exercised,  it  means 
that  it  has  been  worked  up  ;  it  becomes  intentional,  and  there- 
fore matter  of  affe6lation,  in  other  words,  of  deception. 

If  a  man  does  a  thing  unconsciously,  it  costs  him  no  trouble  ; 
but  if  he  tries  to  do  it  by  taking  trouble,  he  fails.  This  applies 
to  the  origin  of  those  fundamental  ideas  which  form  the  pith 
and  marrow  of  all  genuine  work.  Only  that  which  is  innate 
is  genuine  and  will  hold  water  ;  and  every  man  who  wants  to 
achieve  something,  whether  in  pradlical  life,  in  literature,  or  in 
art,  must  follow  the  rules  without  knowing  them. 

Men  of  very  great  capacity,  will  as  a  rule,  find  the  company 
of  very  stupid  people  preferable  to  that  of  the  common  run  ; 
for  the  same  reason  that  the  tyrant  and  the  mob,  the  grand- 
father and  the  grandchildren,  are  natural  allies. 

That  line  of  Ovid's, 

Pronaque  cum  speElent  animalia  cetera  terrain, 
can  be  applied  in  its  true  physical  sense  to  the  lower  animals 
alone  ;  but  in  a  metaphorical  and  spiritual  sense  it  is,  alas  ! 
true  of  nearly  all  men  as  well.  All  their  plans  and  projedls  are 
merged  in  the  desire  of  physical  enjoyment,  physical  well-being. 
They  may,  indeed,  have  personal  interests,  often  embracing  a 
very  varied  sphere  ;  but  still  these  latter  receive  their  import- 
ance entirely  from  the  relation  in  which  they  stand  to  the 
former.  This  is  not  only  proved  by  their  manner  of  hfe  and 
the  things  they  say,  but  it  even  shows  itself  in  the  way  they 
look,  the  expression  of  their  physiognomy,  their  gait  and 
gesticulations.  Everything  about  them  cries  out ;  in  terrain 
pronal 


46  STUDIES   IN   PESSIMISM. 

It  is  not  to  them,  it  is  only  to  the  nobler  and  more  highly 
endowed  natures — men  who  really  think  and  look  about  them 
in  the  world,  and  form  exceptional  specimens  of  humanity — 
that  the  next  lines  are  applicable  ; 

Os  homini  sublime  dedit  coelumque  tueri 
Jussit  et  ere^os  ad  sidera  tollere  vultus. 

No  one  knows  what  capacities  for  doing  and  suffering  he 
has  in  himself,  until  something  comes  to  rouse  them  to  a6livity  : 
just  as  in  a  pond  of  still  water,  lying  there  like  a  mirror,  there 
is  no  sign  of  the  roar  and  thunder  with  which  it  can  leap  from 
the  precipice,  and  yet  remain  what  it  is  ;  or  again,  rise  high  in 
the  air  as  a  fountain.  When  water  is  as  cold  as  ice,  you  can 
have  no  idea  of  the  latent  warmth  contained  in  it. 


Why  is  it  that,  in  spite  of  all  the  mirrors  in  the  world,  no 
one  really  knows  what  he  looks  like  ? 

A  man  may  call  to  mind  the  face  of  his  friend,  but  not  his 
own.  Here,  then,  is  an  initial  difficulty  in  the  way  of  applying 
the  maxim.  Know  thyself. 

This  is  partly,  no  doubt,  to  be  explained  by  the  fa<5l  that  it 
is  physically  impossible  for  a  man  to  see  himself  in  the  glass 
except  with  face  turned  straight  towards  it  and  perfe6lly  motion- 
less ;  where  the  expression  of  the  eye,  which  counts  for  so 
much,  and  really  gives  its  whole  character  to  the  face,  is  to  a 
great  extent  lost.  But  co-existing  with  this  physical  impossi- 
bility, there  seems  to  me  to  be  an  ethical  impossibility  of  an 
analogous  nature,  and  producing  the  same  effect.  A  man  can- 
not look  upon  his  own  refle6lion  as  though  the  person  present- 
ed there  were  a  stranger  to  him  ;  and  yet  this  is  necessary  if 
he  is  to  take  an  objeilive  view.  In  the  last  resort,  an  objeftive 
view  means  a  deep-rooted  feeling  on  the  part  of  the  individual, 
as  a  moral  being,  that  that  which  he  is  contemplating  is  not 
himself:  *  and  unless  he  can  take  this  point  of  view,  he  will  not 
see  things  in  a  really  true  light,  which  is  possible  only  if  he  is 
^Q,{.  Grundprobleme  der  Ethik.  p.  TT]^. 


PSYCHOLOGICAL  OBSERVATIONS.  47 

alive  to  their  actual  defe<5ls,  exadly  as  they  are.  Instead  of 
that,  when  a  man  sees  himself  in  the  glass,  something  out  of 
his  own  egotistic  nature  whispers  to  him  to  take  care  to  remem- 
ber that  it  is  no  stranger,  but  himself,  that  he  is  looking  at  ; 
and  this  operates  as  a  noli  me  tangere,  and  prevents  him  taking 
an  objective  view.  It  seems,  indeed,  as  if,  without  the  leaven 
of  a  grain  of  maUce,  such  a  view  were  impossible. 

•  ••••• 

According  as  a  man's  mental  energy  is  exerted  or  relaxed, 
will  life  appear  to  him  either  so  short,  and  petty,  and  fleeting, 
that  nothing  can  possibly  happen  over  which  it  is  worth  his 
while  to  spend  emotion  ;  that  nothing  really  matters,  whether  it 
is  pleasure  or  riches,  or  even  fame,  and  that  in  whatever  way 
a  man  may  have  failed,  he  cannot  have  lost  much — or,  on  the 
other  hand,  life  will  seem  so  long,  so  important,  so  all  in  all, 
so  momentous  and  so  full  of  difficulty  that  we  have  to  plunge 
into  it  with  our  whole  soul  if  we  are  to  obtain  a  share  of  its 
goods,  make  sure  of  its  prizes,  and  carry  out  our  plans.  This 
latter  is  the  immanent  and  common  view  of  life  ;  it  is  what 
Gracian  means  when  he  speaks  of  the  serious  way  of  looking 
at  things — tomar  muy  de  veras  el  vivir.  The  former  is  the 
transcendental  view,  which  is  well  expressed  in  Ovid's  non  est 
tanti — it  is  not  worth  so  much  trouble  ;  still  better,  however, 
by  Plato's  remark  that  nothing  in  human  affairs  is  worth  any 

great  anxiety — ovrt  n  tuv  dvdpuirivuv  a^LOV  karl  fieydTyrjc  anovdfjq.      This 

condition  of  mind  is  due  to  the  intelledl  having  got  the  upper 
hand  in  the  domain  of  consciousiiess,  where,  freed  from  the 
mere  service  of  the  will,  it  looks  upon  the  phenomena  of  life 
obje6lively,  and  so  cannot  fail  to  gain  a  clear  insight  into  its 
vain  and  futile  character.  But  in  the  other  condition  of  mind, 
will  predominates  ;  and  the  intellect  exists  only  to  light  it  on 
its  way  to  the  attainment  of  its  desires. 

A  man  is  great  or  small  according  as  he  leans  to  the  one  or 
the  other  of  these  views  of  life. 

•  ••••• 

People  of  very  brilliant  ability  think  little  of  admitting  their 
errors  and  weaknesses,  or  of  letting  others  see  them.     They 


48  STUDIES   IN    PESSIMISM. 

look  upon  them  as  something  for  which  they  have  duly  paid ; 
and  instead  of  fancying  that  these  weaknesses  are  a  disgrace  to 
them,  they  consider  they  are  doing  them  an  honor.  This  is 
especially  the  case  when  the  errors  are  of  the  kind  that  hang 
together  with  their  qualities — conditiones  sine  quibus  non — or, 
as  George  Sand  said,  les  difauts  de  ses  vertus. 

Contrarily,  there  are  people  of  good  chara<5ler  and  irre- 
proachable intelle6lual  capacity,  who,  far  from  admitting  the 
few  little  weaknesses  they  have,  conceal  them  with  care,  and 
show  themselves  very  sensitive  to  any  suggestion  of  their  exist- 
ence ;  and  this,  just  because  their  whole  merit  consists  in  being 
free  from  error  and  infirmity.  If  these  people  are  found  to  have 
done  anything  wrong,  their  reputation  immediately  suffers. 

With  people  of  only  moderate  ability,  modesty  is  mere 
honesty  ;  but  with  those  who  possess  great  talent,  it  is  hypoc- 
risy. Hence,  it  is  just  as  becoming  in  the  latter  to  make  no 
secret  of  the  respe6l  they  bear  themselves  and  no  disguise  of 
the  fa6t  that  they  are  conscious  of  unusual  power,  as  it  is  in  the 
former  to  be  modest.  Valerius  Maximus  gives  some  very  neat 
examples  of  this  in  his  chapter  on  self-confidence,  de  fiducia  sui. 

Not  to  go  to  the  theatre  is  like  making  one's  toilet  without 
a  mirror.  But  it  is  still  worse  to  take  a  decision  without  con- 
sulting a  friend.  For  a  man  may  have  the  most  excellent 
judgment  in  all  other  matters,  and  yet  go  wrong  in  those  which 
concern  himself;  because  here  the  will  comes  in  and  deranges 
the  intelle6l  at  once.  Therefore  let  a  man  take  counsel  of  a 
friend.  A  doctor  can  cure  everyone  but  himself;  if  he  falls 
ill,  he  sends  for  a  colleague. 

In  all  that  we  do,  we  wish,  more  or  less,  to  come  to  the  end  ; 
we  are  impatient  to  finish  and  glad  to  be  done.  But  the  last 
scene  of  all,  the  general  end,  is  something  that,  as  a  rule,  we 
wish  as  far  off  as  may  be. 


PSYCHOLOGICAL   OBSERVATIONS.  ,  49 

Every  parting  gives  a  foretaste  of  death  ;  every  coming  to- 
gether again  a  foretaste  of  the  resurre6lion.  This  is  why  even 
people  who  were  indifferent  to  each  other,  rejoice  so  much  if 
they  come  together  again  after  twenty  or  thirty  years'  sepa- 
ration. 

•  •  «  •  •  •  ^ 

Intellects  differ  from  one  another  in  a  very  real  and  funda- 
mental way  :  but  no  comparison  can  well  be  made  by  merely 
general  observations.  It  is  necessary  to  come  close,  and  to 
go  into  details  ;  for  the  difference  that  exists  cannot  be  seen 
from  afar  ;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  judge  by  outward  appearances, 
as  in  the  several  cases  of  education,  leisure  and  occupation. 
But  even  judging  by  these  alone,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
many  a  man  has  a  degree  of  existence  at  least  ten  times  as  high 
as  another — in  other  words,  exists  ten  times  as  much. 

I  am  not  speaking  here  of  savages  whose  life  is  often  only 
one  degree  above  that  of  the  apes  in  their  woods  Consider, 
for  instance,  a  porter  in  Naples  or  Venice,  (in  the  north  of 
Europe  solicitude  for  the  winter  months  rriakes  people  more 
thoughtful  and  therefore  refie6tive)  ;  look  at  the  life  he  leads, 
from  its  beginning  to  its  end  : — driven  by  poverty  ;  living  on 
his  physical  strength  ;  meeting  the  needs  of  every  day,  nay,  of 
every  hour,  by  hard  work,  great  effort,  constant  tumult,  want 
in  all  its  forms,  no  care  for  the  morrow  ;  his  only  comfort,  rest 
after  exhaustion  ;  continuous  quarreling  ;  not  a  moment  free 
for  reflection  ;  such  sensual  delights  as  a  mild  climate  and  only 
just  sufficient  food  will  permit  of;  and  then,  finally,  as  the 
metaphysical  element,  the  crass  superstition  of  his  church  ;  the 
whole  forming  a  manner  of  life  with  only  a  iow  degree  of  con- 
sciousness, where  a  man  hustles,  or  rather  is  hustled,  through 
his  existence.  This  restless  and  confused  dream  forms  the  life 
of  how  many  millions  ! 

Such  men  think  only  just  so  much  as  is  necessary  to  carry 
out  their  will  for  the  moment.  They  never  refiedl  upon  their 
life  as  a  connected  whole,  let  alone,  then,  upon  existence  in 
general ;  to  a  certain  extent  they  may  be  said  to  exist  without 


50  STUDIES   IN    PESSIMISM. 

really  knowing  it.  The  existence  of  the  mobsman  or  the  slave 
who  lives  on  in  this  unthinking  way,  stands  very  much  nearer 
than  ours  to  that  of  the  brute,  which  is  confined  entirely  to  the 
present  moment ;  but,  for  that  very  reason,  it  has  also  less  of 
pain  in  it  than  ours.  Nay,  since  all  pleasure  is  in  its  nature 
negative,  that  is  to  say,  consists  in  freedom  from  some  form  of 
misery  or  need,  the  constant  and  rapid  interchange  between 
setting  about  something  and  getting  it  done,  which  is  the 
permanent  accompaniment  of  the  work  they  do,  and  then 
again  the  augmented  form  which  this  takes  when  they  go 
from  work  to  rest  and  the  satisfaction  of  their  needs — all  this 
gives  them  a  constant  source  of  enjoyment  ;  and  the  fadi  that 
it  is  much  commoner  to  see  happy  faces  amongst  the  poor 
than  amongst  the  rich,  is  a  sure  proof  that  it  is  used  to  good 
advantage. 

Passing  from  this  kind  of  man,  consider,  next,  the  sober, 
sensible  merchant,  who  leads  a  life  of  speculation,  thinks  long 
over  his  plans  and  carries  them  out  with  great  care,  founds  a 
house,  and  provides  for  his  wife,  his  children  and  descendants  ; 
takes  his  share,  too,  in  the  life  of  a  community.  It  is  obvious 
that  a  man  like  this  has  a  much  higher  degree  of  consciousness 
than  the  former,  and  so  his  existence  has  a  higher  degree  of 
reality. 

Then  look  at  the  man  of  learning,  who  investigates,  it  may 
be,  the  history  of  the  past.  He  will  have  reached  the  point 
at  which  a  man  becomes  conscious  of  existence  as  a  whole, 
sees  beyond  the  period  of  his  own  life,  beyond  his  own  personal 
interests,  thinking  over  the  whole  course  of  the  world's  history. 

Then,  finally,  look  at  the  poet  or  the  philosopher,  in  whom 
refledlion  has  reached  such  a  height,  that,  instead  of  being 
drawn  on  to  investigate  any  one  particular  phenomenon  of 
existence,  he  stands  in  amazement  before  existence  itself,  this 
great  sphinx,  and  makes  it  his  problem.  In  him  conscious- 
ness has  reached  the  degree  of  clearness  at  which  it  embraces 
the  world  itself :  his  intelle6t  has  completely  abandoned  its 
function  as  the  servant  of  his  will,  and  now  holds  the  world 


PSYCHOLOGICAL   OBSERVATIONS.  $1 

before  him  ;  and  the  world  calls  upon  him  much  more  to  ex- 
amine and  consider  it,  than  to  play  a  part  in  it  himself.  If, 
then,  the  degree  of  consciousness  is  the  degree  of  reality,  such 
a  man  will  be  said  to  exist  most  of  all,  and  there  will  be  sense 
and  significance  in  so  describing  him. 

Between  the  two  extremes  here  sketched,  and  the  interven- 
ing stages,  everyone  will  be  able  to  find  the  place  at  which  he 
himself  stands. 

•  •••••• 

We  know  that  man  is  in  general  superior  to  all  other  animals, 
and  this  is  also  the  case  in  his  capacity  for  being  trained. 
Mohammedans  are  trained  to  pray  with  their  faces  turned 
towards  Mecca,  five  times  a  day  ;  and  they  never  fail  to  do  it. 
Christians  are  trained  to  cross  themselves  on  certain  occasions, 
to  bow,  and  so  on.  Indeed,  it  may  be  said  that  religion  is  the 
chef  d' ceuvre  of  the  art  of  training,  because  it  trains  people  in 
the  way  they  shall  think  :  and,  as  is  well  known,  you  cannot 
begin  the  process  too  early.  There  is  no  absurdity  so  palpable 
but  that  it  may  be  firmly  planted  in  the  human  head  if  you 
only  begin  to  inculcate  it  before  the  age  of  five,  by  constantly 
repeating  it  with  an  air  of  great  solemnity.  For  as  in  the  case 
of  animals,  so  in  that  of  men,  training  is  successful  only  when 
you  begin  in  early  youth. 

Noblemen  and  gentlemen  are  trained  to  hold  nothing  sacred 
but  their  word  of  honor — to  maintain  a  zealous,  rigid,  and 
unshaken  belief  in  the  ridiculous  code  of  chivalry  ;  and  if  they 
are  called  upon  to  do  so,  to  seal  their  belief  by  dying  for  it, 
and  seriously  to  regard  a  king  as  a  being  of  a  higher  order. 

Again,  our  expressions  of  politeness,  the  compliments  we 
make,  in  particular,  the  respecflful  attentions  we  pay  to  ladies, 
are  a  matter  of  training  ;  as  also  our  esteem  for  good  birth, 
rank,  titles,  and  so  on.  Of  the  same  charad^er  is  the  resent- 
ment we  feel  at  any  insult  direded  against  us  ;  and  the  measure 
of  this  resentment  may  be  exa6tly  determined  by  the  nature  of 
the  insult.  An  Englishman,  for  instance,  thinks  it  a  deadly 
insult  to  be  told  that  he  is  no  gentleman,  or,  still  worse,  that 


52  STUDIES    IN    PESSIMISM. 

he  is  a  liar ;   a  Frenchman  has  the  same  feeling  if  you  call  him 
a  coward,  and  a  German  if  you  say  he  is  stupid. 

There  are  many  persons  who  are  trained  to  be  stridly  hon- 
orable in  regard  to  one  particular  matter,  while  they  have 
little  honor  to  boast  of  in  anything  else.  Many  a  man,  for 
instance,  will  not  steal  your  money  ;  but  he  will  lay  hands  on 
everything  of  yours  that  he  can  enjoy  without  having  to  pay 
for  it.  A  man  of  business  will  often  deceive  you  without  the 
slightest  scruple,  but  he  will  absolutely  refuse  to  commit  a 
theft. 

•  •••••• 

Imagination  is  strong  in  a  man  when  that  particular  funftion 
of  the  brain  which  enables  him  to  observe  is  roused  to  activity 
without  any  necessary  excitement  of  the  senses.  Accordingly, 
we  find  that  imagination  is  adlive  just  in  proportion  as  our 
senses  are  not  excited  by  external  objects.  A  long  period  of 
solitude,  whether  in  prison  or  in  a  sick  room  ;  quiet,  twilight, 
darkness — these  are  the  things  that  promote  its  adlivity  ;  and 
under  their  influence  it  comes  into  play  of  itself.  On  the  other 
hand,  when  a  great  deal  of  material  is  presented  to  our  faculties 
of  observation,  as  happens  on  a  journey,  or  in  the  hurly-burly 
of  the  world,  or,  again,  in  broad  daylight,  the  imagination  is 
idle,  and,  even  though  call  may  be  made  upon  it,  refuses  to 
l)ecome  a<5live,  as  though  it  understood  that  that  was  not  its 
proper  time. 

However,  if  the  imagination  is  to  yield  any  real  produ6l,  it 
must  have  received  a  great  deal  of  material  from  the  external 
world.  This  is  the  only  way  in  which  its  storehouse  can  be 
filled.  The  phantasy  is  nourished  much  in  the  same  way  as 
the  body,  which  is  least  capable  of  any  work  and  enjoys  doing 
nothing  just  in  the  very  moment  when  it  receives  its  food 
>vhich  it  has  to  digest.  And  yet  it  is  to  this  very  food  that  it 
owes  the  power  which  it  afterwards  puts  forth  at  the  right 
time.  : 

•  •••••• 

Opinion  is  like  a  pendulum  and  obeys  the  same  law.  If  it 
goes  past  the  centre  of  gravity  on  one  side,  it  must  go  a  like 


PSYCHOLOGICAL   OBSERVATIONS.  53 

distance  on  the  other ;  and  it  is  only  after  a  certain  time  that  it 
finds  the  true  point  at  which  it  can  remain  at  rest. 

By  a  process  of  contradlion,  distance  in  space  makes  things 
look  small,  and  therefore  free  from  defe6l.  This  is  why  a 
landscape  looks  so  much  better  in  a  contra6ting  mirror  or 
in  a  camera  obscura,  than  it  is  in  reality.  The  same  effect 
is  produced  by  distance  in  time.  The  scenes  and  events  of 
long  ago,  and  the  persons  who  took  part  in  them,  wear  a 
charming  aspeft  to  the  eye  of  memory,  which  sees  only  the 
outlines  and  takes  no  note  of  disagreeable  details.  The  pres- 
ent enjoys  no  such  advantage,  and  so  it  always  seems  de- 
fective. 

And  again,  as  regards  space,  small  objects  close  to  us  look 
big,  and  if  they  are  very  close,  we  may  be  able  to  see  nothing 
else,  but  when  we  go  a  little  way  off,  they  become  minute  and 
invisible.  It  is  the  same  again  as  regards  time.  The  little 
incidents  and  accidents  of  every  day  fill  us  with  emotion, 
anxiety,  annoyance,  passion,  as  long  as  they  are  close  to  us, 
when  they  appear  so  big,  so  important,  so  serious  ;  but  as 
soon  as  they  are  borne  down  the  restless  stream  of  time,  they 
lose  what  significance  they  had  ;  we  think  no  more  of  them 
and  soon  forget  them  altogether.  They  were  big  only  because 
they  were  near. 

Joy  and  sorrow  are  not  ideas  of  the  mind,  but  affedlions  of 
the  will,  and  so  they  do  not  lie  in  the  domain  of  memory.  We 
cannot  recall  our  joys  and  sorrows  ;  by  which  I  mean  that  we 
cannot  renew  ihem.  We  can  recall  only  the  ideas  that  ac- 
companied them  ;  and,  in  particular,  the  things  we  were  led  to 
say  ;  and  these  form  a  gauge  of  our  feelings  at  the  time. 
Hence,  our  memory  of  joys  and  sorrows  is  always  imperfect, 
and  they  become  a  matter  of  indifference  to  us  as  soon  as  they 
are  over.  This  explains  the  vanity  of  the  attempt,  which  we 
sometimes  make,  to  revive  the  pleasures  and  the  pains  of  the 
past.  Pleasure  and  pain  are  essentially  an  affair  of  the  will ; 
and  the  will,  as  such,  is  not  possessed  of  memory,  which  is  a 


54  STUDIES   IN   PESSIMISM. 

function  of  the  intellect ;  and  this  in  its  turn  gives  out  and 
takes  in  nothing  but  thoughts  and  ideas,  which  are  not  here  in 
question. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  in  bad  days  we  can  very  vividly 
recall  the  good  time  that  is  now  no  more  ;  but  that  in  good 
days,  we  have  only  a  very  cold  and  imperfect  memory  of 
the  bad. 

We  have  a  much  better  memory  of  actual  objects  or  pictures 
than  for  mere  iSeas.  Hence  a  good  imagination  makes  it 
easier  to  learn  languages  ;  for  by  its  aid,  the  new  word  is  at 
once  united  with  the  actual  object  to  which  it  refers  ;  whereas, 
if  there  is  no  imagination,  it  is  simply  put  on  a  parallel  with 
the  equivalent  word  in  the  mother  tongue. 

Mnemonics  should  not  only  mean  the  art  of  keeping  some- 
thing indirectly  in  the  memory  by  the  use  of  some  direct  pun 
or  witticism  ;  it  should,  rather,  be  applied  to  a  systematic 
theory  of  memory,  and  explain  its  several  attributes  by  refer- 
ence both  to  its  real  nature,  and  to  the  relation  in  which  these 
attributes  stand  to  one  another. 

•  •  •  •  •  •  m  . 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  our  senses  obtain  a  higher 
and  rarer  degree  of  clearness,  apart  from  any  particular  oc- 
casion for  it  in  the  nature  of  our  surroundings  ;  and  explicable, 
rather,  on  physiological  grounds  alone,  as  the  result  of  some 
enhanced  state  of  susceptibility,  working  from  within  outwards. 
Such  moments  remain  indelibly  impressed  upon  the  memory, 
and  preserve  themselves  in  their  individuality  entire.  We  can 
assign  no  reason  for  it,  nor  explain  why  this  among  so  many 
thousand  moments  like  it  should  be  specially  remembered. 
It  seems  as  much  a  matter  of  chance  as  when  single  specimens 
of  a  whole  race  of  animals  now  extinct  are  discovered  in  the 
layers  of  a  rock  ;  or  when,  on  opening  a  book,  we  light 
upon  an  insect  accidentally  crushed  within  the  leaves.  Mem- 
ories of  this  kind  are  always  sweet  and  pleasant. 


PSYCHOLOGICAL   OBSERVATIONS.  55 

It  occasionally  happens  that,  for  no  particular  reason,  long- 
forgotten  scenes  suddenly  start  up  in  the  memory.  This  may 
in  many  cases  be  due  to  the  aftion  of  some  hardly  perceptible 
odor,  which  accompanied  those  scenes  and  now  recurs  exa6lly 
the  same  as  before.  For  it  is  well  known  that  the  sense  of 
smell  is  specially  effedlive  in  awakening  memories,  and  that 
in  general  it  does  not  require  much  to  rouse  a  train  of  ideas. 
And  I  may  say,  in  passing,  that  the  sense  of  sight  is  conneAed  . 
with  the  understanding,*  the  sense  of  hearing  with  the  reason,* 
and,  as  we  see  in  the  present  case,  the  sense  of  smell  with  the 
memory.  Touch  and  Taste  are  more  material  and  dependent 
upon  conta6l.     They  have  no  ideal  side. 

•  •  •  •  •  '  •  •  - 

It  must  also  be  reckoned  among  the  peculiar  attributes  of 
memory  that  a  slight  state  of  intoxication  often  so  greatly 
enhances  the  recoUeftion  of  past  times  and  scenes,  that  all  the 
circumstances  conne6led  with  them  come  back  much  more 
clearly  than  would  be  possible  in  a  state  of  sobriety ;  but  that, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  recolledlion  of  what  one  said  or  did 
while  the  intoxication  lasted,  is  more  than  usually  imperfedl ; 
nay,  that  if  one  has  been  absolutely  tipsy,  it  is  gone  altogether. 
We  may  say,  then,  that  whilst  intoxication  enhances  the 
memory  for  what  is  past,  it  allows  it  to  remember  litde  of  the 
present. 

Men  need  some  kind  of  external  activity,  because  they  are 
inactive  within.  Contrarily,  if  they  are  a6live  within,  they  do 
not  care  to  be  dragged  out  of  themselves  ;  it  disturbs  and 
impedes  their  thoughts  in  a  way  that  is  often  most  ruinous 
to  them. 

•  •  •  •  f  • 

I  am  not  surprised  that  some  people  are  bored  when  they 
find  themselves  alone  ;  for  they  cannot  laugh  if  they  are 
quite  by  themselves.     The  very  idea  of  it  seems  folly  to  them. 

Are  we,  then,  to  look  upon  laughter  as  merely  a  signal  for 

^Vier/ache  Wurze'  §  21.  *Pctrerga  vol.  ii.,  §  311. 


56  STUDIES    IN    PESSIMISM. 

Others — a  mere  sign,  like  a  word  ?  What  makes  it  impossible 
for  people  to  laugh  when  they  are  alone  is  nothing  but  want  of 
imagination,  dullness  of  mind  generally — dvaiadijaia  koi  (SpaSv-riii 
'h'xvc,  as  Theophrastus  has  it.*  The  lower  animals  never  laugh, 
either  alone  or  in  company.  Myson,  the  misanthropist,  was 
once  surprised  by  one  of  these  people  as  he  was  laughing  to 
himself  Why  do  you  laugh  ?  he  asked  ;  there  is  no  one  with 
you.      That  is  just  why  I  am  laughing,  said  Myson. 

Natural  gesticulation,  such  as  commonly  accompanies  any 
lively  talk,  is  a  language  of  its  own,  more  widespread,  even, 
than  the  language  of  words — so  far,  I  mean,  as  it  is  inde- 
pendent of  words  and  alike  in  all  nations.  It  is  true  that 
nations  make  use  of  it  in  proportion  as  they  are  vivacious,  and 
that  in  particular  cases,  amongst  the  Italians,  for  instance,  it  is 
supplemented  by  certain  peculiar  gestures  which  are  merely 
conventional,  and  therefore  possessed  of  nothing  more  than  a 
local  value. 

In  the  universal  use  made  of  it,  gesticulation  has  some  analogy 
with  logic  and  grammar,  in  that  it  has  to  do  with  the  form, 
rather  than  with  the  matter  of  conversation  ;  but  on  the  other 
hand  it  is  distinguishable  from  them  by  the  fa6l  that  it  has  more 
of  a  moral  than  of  an  intelledual  bearing  ;  in  other  words,  it 
refle6ls  the  movements  of  the  will.  As  an  accompaniment  of 
conversation  it  is  like  the  bass  of  a  melody  ;  and  if,  as  in 
music,  it  keeps  true  to  the  progress  of  the  treble,  it  serves  to 
heighten  the  effedt. 

In  a  conversation,  the  gesture  depends  upon  the  form  in 
which  the  subje6l-matter  is  conveyed  ;  and  it  is  interesting  to 
observe  that,  whatever  that  subje6t-matter  may  be,  with  a 
recurrence  of  the  form,  the  very  same  gesture  is  repeated.  So 
if  I  happen  to  see — from  my  window,  say — two  persons  carry- 
ing on  a  lively  conversation,  without  my  being  able  to  catch  a 
word,  I  can,  nevertheless,  understand  the  general  nature  of  it 
perfe<5lly  well ;  I  mean,  the  kind  of  thing  that  is  being  said  and 

^Charailers,  c.  27. 


PSYCHOLOGICAL   OBSERVATIONS.  57 

the  form  it  takes.  There  is  no  mistake  about  it.  The  speaker 
is  arguing  about  something,  advancing  his  reasons,  then  Umit- 
ing  their  application,  then  driving  them  home  and  drawing  the 
conclusion  in  triumph  ;  or  he  is  recounting  his  experiences, 
proving,  perhaps,  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  how  much 
he  has  been  injured,  but  bringing  the  clearest  and  most  dam- 
ning evidence  to  show  that  his  opponents  were  foolish  and 
obstinate  people  who  would  not  be  convinced  ;  or  else  he  is 
telling  of  the  splendid  plan  he  laid,  and  how  he  carried  it  to  a 
successful  issue,  or  perhaps  failed  because  the  luck  was  against 
him  ;  or,  it  may  be,  he  is  saying  that  he  was  completely  at  a 
loss  to  know  what  to  do,  or  that  he  was  quick  in  seeing  some 
traps  set  for  him,  and  that  by  insisting  on  his  rights  or  by 
applying  a  little  force,  he  succeeded  in  frustrating  and  punish- 
ing his  enemies  ;  and  so  on  in  hundreds  of  cases  of  a  similar 
kind. 

Strictly  speaking,  however,  what  I  get  from  gesticulation 
alone  is  an  abstract  notion  of  the  essential  drift  of  what  is  being 
said,  and  that,  too,  whether  I  judge  from  a  moral  or  an  in- 
tellectual point  of  view.  It  is  the  quintessence,  the  true  sub- 
stance of  the  conversation,  and  this  remains  identical,  no 
matter  what  may  have  given  rise  to  the  conversation,  or  what 
it  may  be  about ;  the  relation  between  the  two  being  that  of  a 
general  idea  or  class  name  to  the  individuals  which  it  covers. 

As  I  have  said,  the  most  interesting  and  amusing  part  of  the 
matter  is  the  complete  identity  and  solidarity  of  the  gestures 
used  to  denote  the  same  set  of  circumstances,  even  though  by 
people  of  very  different  temperament ;  so  that  the  gestures  be- 
come exactly  like  words  of  a  language,  alike  for  every  one, 
and  subject  only  to  such  small  modifications  as  depend  upon 
variety  of  accent  and  education.  And  yet  there  can  be  no 
doubt  but  that  these  standing  gestures,  which  every  one  uses, 
are  the  result  of  no  convention  or  collusion.  They  are  original 
and  innate — a  true  language  of  nature  ;  consolidated,  it  may 
be,  by  imitation  and  the  influence  of  custom. 

It  is  well  known  that  it  is  part  of  an  actor's  duty  to  make 


58  STUDIES   IN   PESSIMISM. 

a  careful  study  of  gesture  ;  and  the  same  thing  is  true,  to  a 
somewhat  smaller  degree,  of  a  public  speaker.  This  study 
must  consist  chiefly  in  watching  others  and  imitating  their 
movements,  for  there  are  no  abstract  rules  fairly  applicable  to 
the  matter,  with  the  exception  of  some  very  general  leading 
principles,  such  as — to  take  an  example — that  the  gesture  must 
not  follow  the  word,  but  rather  come  immediately  before  it,  by 
way  of  announcing  its  approach  and  attracting  the  hearer's 
attention. 

Englishmen  entertain  a  peculiar  contempt  for  gesticulation, 
and  look  upon  it  as  something  vulgar  and  undignified.  This 
seems  to  me  a  silly  prejudice  on  their  part,  and  the  outcome 
of  their  general  prudery.  For  here  we  have  a  language  which 
nature  has  given  to  every  one,  and  which  every  one  under- 
stands ;  and  to  do  away  with  and  forbid  it  for  no  better  reason 
than  that  it  is  opposed  to  that  much -lauded  thing,  gendemanly 
feeling,  is  a  very  questionable  proceeding. 


ON  EDUCATION. 

THE  human  intelled  is  said  to  be  so  constituted  thaX general 
ideas  arise  by  abstra6lion  from  particular  observations ^ 
and  therefore  come  after  them  in  point  of  time.  If  this  is  what 
a6lually  occurs,  as  happens  in  the  case  of  a  man  who  has  to 
depend  solely  upon  his  own  experience  for  what  he  learns — who 
has  no  teacher  and  no  book, — such  a  man  knows  quite  well 
which  of  his  particular  observations  belong  to  and  are  repre- 
sented by  each  of  his  general  ideas.  He  has  a  perfe6l  acquaint- 
ance with  both  sides  of  his  experience,  and  accordingly,  he 
treats  everything  that  comes  in  his  way  from  a  right  standpoint. 
This  might  be  called  the  natural  method  of  education. 

Contrarily,  the  artificial  method  is  to  hear  what  other  people 
say,  to  learn  and  to  read,  and  so  to  get  your  head  crammed 
full  of  general  ideas  before  you  have  any  sort  of  extended 
acquaintance  with  the  world  as  it  is,  and  as  you  may  see  it  for 
yourself.  You  will  be  told  that  the  particular  observations 
which  go  to  make  these  general  ideas  will  come  to  you  later 
on  in  the  course  of  experience  ;  but  until  that  time  arrives, 
you  apply  your  general  ideas  wrongly,  you  judge  men  and 
things  from  a  wrong  standpoint,  you  see  them  in  a  wrong 
light,  and  treat  them  in  a  wrong  way.  So  it  is  that  education 
perverts  the  mind.  " 

This  explains  why  it  so  frequently  happens  that,  after  a  long 
course  of  learning  and  reading,  we  enter  upon  the  world  in  our 
youth,  partly  with  an  artless  ignorance  of  things,  partly  with 
wrong  notions  about  them  ;  so  that  our  demeanor  savors  at 
one  moment  of  a  nervous  anxiety,  at  another  of  a  mistaken 

(59) 


6o  STUDIES    IN    PESSIMISM. 

confidence.     The  reason  of  this  is  simply  that  our  head  is  full 
of  general  ideas  which  we  are  now  trying  to  turn  to  some  use, 
but  which  we  hardly  ever  apply  rightly.     This  is  the  result  of 
acting  in  direct  opposition  to  the  natural  development  of  the 
mind  by  obtaining  general  ideas  first,  and  particular  observa- 
tions last  :  it  is  putting  the  cart  before  the  horse.     Instead  of 
developing   the    child's    own   faculties    of  discernment,   and 
teaching  it  to  judge  and  think  for  itself,  the  teacher  uses  all 
his  energies  to  stuff  its  head  full  of  the  ready-made  thoughts 
of  other  people.     The  mistaken  views  of  life,   which  spring 
from  a  false  application  of  general  ideas,  have  afterwards  to  be 
corrected  by  long  years  of  experience  ;  and  it  is  seldom  that 
they  are  wholly    corrected.      This    is   why  so   few    men  of 
learning  are  possessed  of  common-sense,  such  as  is  often  to  be 
met  with  in  people  who  have  had  no  instruction  at  all. 

To  acquire  a  knowledge  of  the  world  might  be  defined  as  the 
aim  of  all  education  ;  and  it  follows  from  what  I  have  said  that 
special  stress  should  be  laid  upon  beginning  to  acquire  this 
knowledge  at  the  right  end.  As  I  have  shown,  this  means,  in 
the  main,  that  the  particular  observation  of  a  thing  shall  precede 
the  general  idea  of  it  ;  further,  that  narrow  and  circumscribed 
ideas  shall  come  before  ideas  of  a  wide  range.  It  means,  there- 
fore, that  the  whole  system  of  education  shall  follow  in  the 
steps  that  must  have  been  taken  by  the  ideas  themselves  in  the 
course  of  their  formation.  But  whenever  any  of  these  steps 
are  skipped  or  left  out,  the  instruction  is  defective,  and  the 
ideas  obtained  are  false  ;  and,  finally,  a  distorted  view  of  the 
world  arises,  peculiar  to  the  individual  himself — a  view  such 
as  almost  everyone  entertains  for  some  time,  and  most  men 
for  as  long  as  they  live.  No  one  can  look  into  his  own  mind 
without  seeing  that  it  was  only  after  reaching  a  very  mature 
age,  and  in  some  cases  when  he  least  expected  it,  that  he  came 
to  a  right  understanding  or  a  clear  view  of  many  matters  in  his 
life,  that,  after  all,  were  not  very  difficult  or  complicated.  Up 
till  then,  they  were  points  in  his  knowledge  of  the  world  which 
were  still  obscure,  due  to  his  having  skipped  some  particular 


ON    EDUCATION.  6 1 

lesson  in  those  early  days  of  his  education,  whatever  it  may 
have  been  like — whether  artificial  and  conventional,  or  of  that 
natural  kind  which  is  based  upon  individual  experience. 

It  follows  that  an  attempt  should  be  made  to  find  out  the 
strictly  natural  course  of  knowledge,  so  that  education  may 
proceed  methodically  by  keeping  to  it ;  and  that  children  may 
become  acquainted  with  the  ways  of  the  world,  without  getting 
wrong  ideas  into  their  heads,  which  very  often  cannot  be  got 
out  again.  If  this  plan  were  adopted,  special  care  would  have 
to  be  taken  to  prevent  children  from  using  words  without  clearly 
understanding  their  meaning  and  application.  The  fatal  tend- 
ency to  be  satisfied  with  words  instead  of  trying  to  understand 
things — to  learn  phrases  by  heart,  so  that  they  may  prove  a 
refuge  in  time  of  need,  exists,  as  a  rule,  even  in  children  ;  and 
the  tendency  lasts  on  into  manhood,  making  the  knowledge  of 
many  learned  persons  to  consist  in  mere  verbiage. 

However,  the  main  endeavor  must  always  be  to  let  particular 
observations  precede  general  ideas,  and  not  vice  versa,  as  is 
usually  and  unfortunately  the  case  ;  as  though  a  child  should 
come  feet  foremost  into  the  world,  or  a  verse  be  begun  by 
writing  down  the  rhyme  !  The  ordinary  method  is  to  imprint 
ideas  and  opinions,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  prejudices, 
on  the  mind  of  the  child,  before  it  has  had  any  but  a  very  few 
particular  observations.  It  is  thus  that  he  afterwards  comes  to 
view  the  world  and  gather  experience  through  the  medium  of 
those  ready-made  ideas,  rather  than  to  let  his  ideas  be  formed 
for  him  out  of  his  own  experience  of  life,  as  they  ought  to  be. 

A  man  sees  a  great  many  things  when  he  looks  at  the  world 
for  himself,  and  he  sees  them  from  many  sides  ;  but  this 
method  of  learning  is  not  nearly  so  short  or  so  quick  as  the 
method  which  employs  ab.^tra<5l  ideas  and  makes  hasty  gener- 
alizations about  everything.  Experience,  therefore,  will  be  a 
long  time  in  correcting  preconceived  ideas,  or  perhaps  never 
bring  its  task  to  an  end  ;  for  wherever  a  man  finds  that  the 
aspe6l  of  things  seems  to  contradi6l  the  general  ideas  he  has 
formed,  he  will  begin  by  rejecting  the  evidence  it  offers  as 


62  STUDIES    IN    PESSIMISM. 

partial  and  one-sided  ;  nay,  he  will  shut  his  eyes  to  it  alto- 
gether and  deny  that  it  stands  in  any  contradiction  at  all  with 
his  preconceived  notions,  in  order  that  he  may  thus  preserve 
them  uninjured.  So  it  is  that  many  a  man  carries  about  a 
burden  of  wrong  notions  all  his  life  long — crotchets,  whims, 
fancies,  prejudices,  which  at  last  become  fixed  ideas.  The  fa6l 
is  that  he  has  never  tried  to  form  his  fundamental  ideas  for 
himself  out  of  his  own  experience  of  life,  his  own  way  of  look- 
ing at  the  world,  because  he  has  taken  over  his  ideas  ready- 
made  from  other  people  ;  and  this  it  is  that  makes  him — as  it 
makes  how  many  others  ! — so  shallow  and  superficial. 

Instead  of  that  method  of  instru6lion,  care  should  be  taken 
to  educate  children  on  the  natural  lines.  No  idea  should  ever 
be  established  in  a  child's  mind  otherwise  than  by  what  the 
child  can  see  for  itself,  or  at  any  rate  it  should  be  verified  by  the 
same  means  ;  and  the  result  of  this  would  be  that  the  child's 
ideas,  if  few,  would  be  well-grounded  and  accurate.  It  would 
learn  how  to  measure  things  by  its  own  standard  rarher  than 
by  another's  ;  and  so  it  would  escape  a  thousand  strange 
fancies  and  prejudices,  and  not  need  to  have  them  eradicated 
by  the  lessons  it  will  subsequentiy  be  taught  in  the  school  of 
life.  The  child  would,  in  this  way,  have  its  mind  once  for  all 
habituated  to  clear  views  and  thorough-going  knowledge  ;  it 
would  use  its  own  judgment  and  take  an  unbiased  estimate  of 
things. 

And,  in  general,  children  should  not  form  their  notions  of 
what  life  is  like  from  the  copy  before  they  have  learned  it  from 
the  original,  to  whatever  aspe6t  of  it  their  attention  may  be 
dire<5led.  Instead,  therefore,  of  hastening  to  place  books,  and 
books  alone,  in  their  hands,  let  them  be  made  acquainted,  step 
by  step,  with  thi7igs — with  the  a6iual  circumstances  of  human 
life.  And  above  all  let  care  be  taken  to  bring  them  to  a  clear 
and  objective  view  of  the  world  as  it  is,  to  educate  them  always 
to  derive  their  ideas  dire6lly  from  real  life,  and  to  shape  them 
in  conformity  with  it — not  to  fetch  them  from  other  sources, 
such  as  books,  fairy  tales,  or  what  people  say — then  to  apply 
them  ready-made  to  real  life.     For  this  will  mean  that  their 


ON   EDUCATION.  63 

heads  are  full  of  wrong  notions,  and  that  they  will  either  see 
things  in  a  false  light  or  try  in  vain  to  remodel  the  world  to  suit 
their  views,  and  so  enter  upon  false  paths  ;  and  that,  too, 
whether  they  are  only  constructing  theories  of  life  or  engaged 
in  the  a(5lual  business  of  it.  It  is  incredible  how  much  harm  is 
done  when  the  seeds  of  wrong  notions  are  laid  in  the  mind  in 
those  early  years,  later  on  to  bear  a  crop  of  prejudice  ;  for  the 
subsequent  lessons  which  are  learned  from  real  life  in  the  world 
have  to  be  devoted  mainly  to  their  extirpation.  To  unlearn 
the  evil  was  the  answer  which,  according  to  Diogenes  Laertius,' 
Antisthenes  gave,  when  he  was  asked  what  branch  of  knowl- 
edge was  most  necessary  ;   and  we  can  see  what  he  meant. 

No  child  under  the  age  of  fifteen  should  receive  instruction 
in  subje6ls  which  may  possibly  be  the  vehicle  of  serious  error, 
such  as  philosophy,  religion,  or  any  other  branch  of  knowledge 
where  it  is  necessary  to  take  large  views  ;  because  wrong  no- 
tions imbibed  early  can  seldom  be  rooted  out,  and  of  all  the 
intellectual  faculties,  judgment  is  the  last  to  arrive  at  maturity. 
The  child  should  give  its  attention  either  to  subjedls  where  no 
error  is  possible  at  all,  such  as  mathematics,  or  to  those  in 
which  there  is  no  particular  danger  in  making  a  mistake,  such 
as  languages,  natural  science,  history  and  so  on.  And  in 
general,  the  branches  of  knowledge  which  are  to  be  studied  at 
any  period  of  life  should  be  such  as  the  mind  is  equal  to  at  that 
period  and  can  perfedlly  understand.  Childhood  and  youth 
form  the  time  for  colle6ting  materials,  for  getting  a  special  and 
thorough  knowledge  of  individual  and  particular  things.  In 
those  years  it  is  too  early  to  form  views  on  a  large  scale  ;  and 
ultimate  explanations  must  be  put  off  to  a  later  date.  The 
faculty  of  judgment,  which  cannot  come  into  play  without 
mature  experience,  should  be  left  to  itself;  and  care  should  be 
taken  not  to  anticipate  its  aClion  by  inculcating  prejudice, 
which  will  paralyze  it  for  ever. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  memory  should  be  specially  taxed 
in  youth,  since  it  is  then  that  it  is  strongest  and  most  tenacious. 
But  in  choosing  the  things  that  should  be  committed  to  mem- 

'vi.  7. 


64  STUDIES   IN   PESSIMISM. 

ory  the  utmost  care  and  forethought  must  be  exercised  ;  as 
lessons  well  learnt  in  youth  are  never  forgotten.  This  precious 
soil  must  therefore  be  cultivated  so  as  to  bear  as  much  fruit  as 
possible.  If  you  think  how  deeply  rooted  in  your  memory 
are  those  persons  whom  you  knew  in  the  first  twelve  years  of 
your  life,  how  indelible  the  impression  made  upon  you  by  the 
events  of  those  years,  how  clear  your  recollection  of  most  of 
the  things  that  happened  to  you  then,  most  of  what  was  told 
or  taught  you,  it  will  seem  a  natural  thing  to  take  the  suscepti- 
bility and  tenacity  of  the  mind  at  that  period  as  the  groundwork 
of  education.  This  may  be  done  by  a  stri6l  observance  of 
method,  and  a  systematic  regulation  of  the  impressions  which 
the  mind  is  to  receive. 

But  the  years  of  youth  allotted  to  man  are  short,  and  memory 
is,  in  general,  bound  within  narrow  limits  ;  still  more  so,  the 
memory  of  any  one  individual.  Since  this  is  the  case,  it  is  all- 
important  to  fill  the  memory  with  what  is  essential  and  mate- 
rial in  any  branch  of  knowledge,  to  the  exclusion  of  every- 
thing else.  The  decision  as  to  what  is  essential  and  material 
should  rest  with  the  master-minds  in  every  department  of 
thought  ;  their  choice  should  be  made  after  the  most  mature 
deliberation,  and  the  outcome  of  it  fixed  and  determined. 
Such  a  choice  would  have  to  proceed  by  sifting  the  things 
which  it  is  necessary  and  important  for  a  man  to  know  in 
general,  and  then,  necessary  and  important  for  him  to  know 
in  any  particular  business  or  calling.  Knowledge  of  the  first 
kind  would  have  to  be  classified,  after  an  encyclopaedic  fashion, 
in  graduated  courses,  adapted  to  the  degree  of  general  culture 
which  a  man  may  be  expe6led  to  have  in  the  circumstances  in 
which  he  is  placed  ;  beginning  with  a  course  limited  to  the 
necessary  requirements  of  primary  education,  and  extending 
upwards  to  the  subje6ls  treated  of  in  all  the  branches  of  philo- 
sophical thought.  The  regulation  of  the  second  kind  of 
knowledge  would  be  left  to  those  who  had  shown  genuine 
mastery  in  the  several  departments  into  which  it  is  divided  ; 
and  the  whole  system  would  provide  an  elaborate  rule  or  canon 


ON   EDUCATION.  65 

for  intellectual  education,  which  would,  of  course,  have  to  be 
revised  every  ten  years.  Some  such  arrangement  as  this 
would  employ  the  youthful  power  of  the  memory  to  best  ad- 
vantage, and  supply  excellent  working  material  to  the  faculty 
of  judgment,  when  it  made  its  appearance  later  on. 

A  man's  knowledge  may  be  said  to  be  mature,  in  other 
words,  it  has  reached  the  most  complete  state  of  perfection  to 
which  he.  as  an  individual,  is  capable  of  bringing  it,  when  an 
exact  correspondence  is  established  between  the  whole  of  his 
abstract  ideas  and  the  things  he  has  actually  perceived  for  him- 
self This  will  mean  that  each  of  his  abstract  ideas  rests, 
directly  or  indirectly,  upon  a  basis  of  observation,  which  alone 
endows  it  with  any  real  value  ;  and  also  that  he  is  able  to 
place  every  observation  he  makes  under  the  right  abstradl 
idea  which  belongs  to  it.  Maturity  is  the  work  of  experience 
alone ;  and  therefore  it  requires  time.  The  knowledge  we 
derive  from  our  own  observation  is  usually  distinct  from  that 
which  we  acquire  through  the  medium  of  abstract  ideas  ;  the 
one  coming  to  us  in  the  natural  way,  the  other  by  what  people 
tell  us,  and  the  course  of  instruction  we  receive,  whether  it  is 
good  or  bad.  The  result  is,  that  in  youth  there  is  generally 
very  little  agreement  or  correspondence  between  our  abstract 
ideas,  which  are  merely  phrases  in  the  mind,  and  that  real 
knowledge  which  we  have  obtained  by  our  own  observation. 
It  is  only  later  on  that  a  gradual  approach  takes  place  between 
these  two  kinds  of  knowledge,  accompanied  by  a  mutual  cor- 
rection of  error  ;  and  knowledge  is  not  mature  until  this  coali- 
tion is  accomplished.  This  maturity  or  perfection  of  knowledge 
is  something  quite  independent  of  another  kind  of  perfection, 
which  may  be  of  a  high  or  a  low  order — the  perfection,  I  mean, 
to  which  a  man  may  bring  his  own  individual  faculties  ;  which 
is  measured,  not  by  any  correspondence  between  the  two  kinds 
of  knowledge,  but  by  the  degree  of  intensity  which  each  kind 
attains. 

For  the  practical  man  the  most  needful  thing  is  to  acquire 
an  accurate  and  profound  knowledge  of  the  ways  of  the  world. 


66  STUDIES  IN    PESSIMISM. 

But  this,  though  the  most  needful,  is  also  the  most  wearisome 
of  all  studies,  as  a  man  may  reach  a  great  age  without  coming 
to  the  end  of  his  task  ;  whereas,  in  the  domain  of  the  sciences, 
he  masters  the  more  important  facts  when  he  is  still  young. 
In  acquiring  that  knowledge  of  the  world,  it  is  while  he  is  a 
novice,  namely,  in  boyhood  and  in  youth,  that  the  first  and 
hardest  lessons  are  put  before  him  ;  but  it  often  happens  that 
even  in  later  years  there  is  still  a  great  deal  to  be  learned. 

The  study  is  difficult  enough  in  itself ;  but  the  difficulty  is 
doubled  by  novels,  which  represent  a  state  of  things  in  life  and 
the  world,  such  as,  in  fact,  does  not  exist.  Youth  is  credulous, 
and  accepts  these  views  of  life,  which  then  become  part  and 
parcel  of  the  mind  ;  so  that,  instead  of  a  merely  negative  con- 
dition of  ignorance,  you  have  positive  error — ^a  whole  tissue  of 
false  notions  to  start  with  ;  and  at  a  later  date  these  actually 
spoil  the  schooling  of  experience,  and  put  a  wrong  construc- 
tion on  the  lessons  it  teaches.  If,  before  this,  the  youth  had 
no  light  at  all  to  guide  him,  he  is  now  misled  by  a  will-o'-the 
wisp ;  still  more  often  is  this  the  case  with  a  girl.  They  have 
both  had  a  false  view  of  things  foisted  on  them  by  reading 
novels  ;  and  expectations  have  been  aroused  which  can  never 
be  fulfilled.  This  generally  exercises  a  baneful  influence  on 
their  whole  life.  In  this  respect  those  whose  youth  has  allowed 
them  no  time  or  opportunity  for  reading  novels — those  who 
work  with  their  hands  and  the  like — are  in  a  position  of  decided 
advantage.  There  are  a  few  novels  to  which  this  reproach  can- 
not be  addressed — nay,  which  have  an  effect  the  contrary  of 
bad.  First  and  foremost,  to  give  an  example,  Gil  Bias,  and 
the  other  works  of  Le  Sage  (or  rather  their  Spanish  originals); 
further,  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  and,  to  some  extent,  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  novels.  Don  Quixote  may  be  regarded  as  a 
satirical  exhibition  of  the  error  to  which  I  am  referring. 


OF  WOMEN. 

SCHILLER'S  poem  in  honor  of  women,  Wurde  der 
Frauen,  is  the  result  of  much  careful  thought,  and  it 
appeals  to  the  reader  by  its  antithetic  style  and  its  use  of  con- 
trast ;  but  as  an  expression  of  the  true  praise  which  should  be 
accorded  to  them,  it  is,  I  think,  inferior  to  these  few  words  of 
Jouy's  :  Without  women,  the  beginning  of  our  life  would  be 
helpless  ;  the  middle^  devoid  of  pleasure  ;  and  the  end,  of  con- 
solation. The  same  thing  is  more  feelingly  expressed  by 
Byron  in  Sardanapalus : — 

The  very  first 
Of  human  life  must  spring  from  woman's  breast, 
Your  first  sm,all  words  are  taught  you  from,  her  lips. 
Your  first  tears  quench' d  by  her,  and  your  last  sighs 
Too  often  breathed  out  in  a  woman's  hearing. 
When  men  have  shrunk  from,  the  ignoble  care 
Of  watching  the  last  hour  of  him.  who  led  them,. 

(^Act  I.  Scene  2  ) 

These  two  passages  indicate  the  right  standpoint  for  the 
appreciation  of  women. 

You  need  only  look  at  the  way  in  which  she  is  formed,  to 
see  that  woman  is  not  meant  to  undergo  great  labor,  whether 
of  the  mind  or  of  the  body.  She  pays  the  debt  of  life  not  by 
what  she  does,  but  by  what  she  suffers  ;  by  the  pains  of  child- 
bearing  and  care  for  the  child,  and  by  submission  to  her 
husband,  to  whom  she  should  be  a  patient  and  cheering 
companion.  The  keenest  sorrows  and  joys  are  not  for  her, 
nor  is  she  called  upon  to  display  a  great  deal  of  strength. 
The  current  of  her  life  should  be  more  gentle,  peaceful  and 
trivial  than  man's,  without  being  essentially  happier  or 
unhappier.  (67) 


68  STUDIES    IN    PESSIMISM. 

Women  are  dire<5lly  fitted  for  a<5Hng  as  the  nurses  and 
teachers  of  our  early  childhood  by  the  fa<5l  that  they  are  them- 
selves childish,  frivolous  and  short-sighted  ;  in  a  word,  they 
are  big  children  all  their  life  long — a  kind  of  intermediate  stage 
between  the  child  and  the  full-grown  man,  who  is  man  in  the 
stri^l  sense  of  the  word.  See  how  a  girl  will  fondle  a  child  for 
days  together,  dance  with  it  and  sing  to  it ;  and  then  think 
what  a  man,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  could  do  if  he 
were  put  in  her  place. 

With  young  girls  Nature  seems  to  have  had  in  view  what, 
in  the  language  of  the  drama,  is  called  a  striking  effe£l ;  as 
for  a  few  years  she  dowers  them  with  a  wealth  of  beauty  and 
is  lavish  in  her  gift  of  charm,  at  the  expense  of  all  the  rest  of 
their  life  ;  so  that  during  those  years  they  may  capture  the 
fantasy  of  some  man  to  such  a  degree  that  he  is  hurried  away 
into  undertaking  the  honorable  care  of  them,  in  some  form  or 
other,  as  long  as  they  live — a  step  for  which  there  would  not 
appear  to  be  any  sufficient  warranty  if  reason  only  diredled  his 
thoughts.  Accordingly,  Nature  has  equipped  woman,  as  she 
does  all  her  creatures,  with  the  weapons  and  implements 
requisite  for  the  safeguarding  of  her  existence,  and  for  just  as 
long  as  it  is  necessary  for  her  to  have  them.  Here,  as  else- 
where. Nature  proceeds  with  her  usual  economy  ;  for  just  as 
the  female  ant,  after  fecundation,  loses  her  wings,  which  are 
then  superfluous,  nay,  adlually  a  danger  to  the  business  of 
breeding  ;  so,  after  giving  birth  to  one  or  two  children,  a 
woman  generally  loses  her  beauty ;  probably,  indeed,  for 
similar  reasons. 

And  so  we  find  that  young  girls,  in  their  hearts,  look  upon 
domestic  affairs  or  work  of  any  kind  as  of  secondary  import- 
ance, if  not  adually  as  a  mere  jest.  The  only  business  that 
really  claims  their  earnest  attention  is  love,  making  conquests, 
and  everything  conne6led  with  this — dress,  dancing,  and  so  on. 

The  nobler  and  more  perfe6l  a  thing  is,  the  later  and  slower 
it  is  in  arriving  at  maturity.  A  man  reaches  the  maturity  of 
his  reasoning  powers  and  mental  faculties  hardly  before  the 
age  of  twenty-eight ;   a  woman,  at  eighteen.     And  then,  too, 


OF  WOMEN.  69 

in  the  case  of  woman,  it  is  only  reason  of  a  sort — very  niggard 
in  its  dimensions.  That  is  why  women  remain  children  their 
whole  life  long  ;  never  seeing  anything  but  what  is  quite  close 
to  them,  cleaving  to  the  present  moment,  taking  appearance 
for  reality,  and  preferring  trifles  to  matters  of  the  first  import- 
ance. For  it  is  by  virtue  of  his  reasoning  faculty  that  man 
does  not  live  in  the  present  only,  like  the  brute,  but  looks 
about  him  and  considers  the  past  and  the  future  ;  and  this  is 
the  origin  of  prudence,  as  well  as  of  that  care  and  anxiety 
which  so  many  people  exhibit.  Both  the  advantages  and  the 
disadvantages  which  this  involves,  are  shared  in  by  the  woman 
to  a  smaller  extent  because  of  her  weaker  power  of  reasoning. 
She  may,  in  fa6l,  be  described  as  intelle(5lually  shortsighted, 
because,  while  she  has  an  intuitive  understanding  of  what  lies 
quite  close  to  her,  her  field  of  vision  is  narrow  and  does  not 
reach  to  what  is  remote  ;  so  that  things  which  are  absent,  or 
past,  or  to  come,  have  much  less  effe6t  upon  women  than  upon 
men.  This  is  the  reason  why  women  are  more  often  inclined 
to  be  extravagant,  and  sometimes  carry  their  inclination  to  a 
length  that  borders  upon  madness.  In  their  hearts,  women 
think  that  it  is  men's  business  to  earn  money  and  theirs  to 
spend  it — if  possible  during  their  husband's  life,  but,  at  any 
rate,  after  his  death.  The  very  fadl  that  their  husband  hands 
them  over  his  earnings  for  purposes  of  housekeeping, 
strengthens  them  in  this  belief. 

However  many  disadvantages  all  this  may  involve,  there  is 
at  least  this  to  be  said  in  its  favor  ;  that  the  woman  lives  more 
in  the  present  than  the  man,  and  that,  if  the  present  is  at  all 
tolerable,  she  enjoys  it  more  eagerly.  This  is  the  source  of 
that  cheerfulness  which  is  peculiar  to  women,  fitting  her  to 
amuse  man  in  his  hours  of  recreation,  and,  in  case  of  need, 
to  console  him  when  he  is  borne  down  by  the  weight  of 
his  cares. 

It  is  by  no  means  a  bad  plan  to  consult  women  in  matters  of 
difficulty,  as  the  Germans  used  to  do   in  ancient  times  ;   for 
their  way  of  looking  at  things  is  quite  different  from  ours, 
chiefly  in  the  fadl  that  they  like  to  take  the  shortest  way  to 


70  STUDIES   IN   PESSIMISM. 

their  goal,  and,  in  general,  manage  to  fix  their  eyes  upon 
what  lies  before  them  ;  while  we,  as  a  rule,  see  far  beyond  it, 
iust  because  it  is  in  front  of  our  noses.  In  cases  like  this,  we 
need  to  be  brought  back  to  the  right  standpoint,  so  as  to  re- 
cover the  near  and  simple  view. 

Then,  again,  women  are  decidedly  more  sober  in  their 
judgment  than  we  are,  so  that  they  do  not  see  more  in  things 
than  is  really  there  ;  whilst,  if  our  passions  are  aroused,  we 
are  apt  to  see  things  in  an  exaggerated  way,  or  imagine  what 
does  not  exist. 

The  weakness  of  their  reasoning  faculty  also  explains  why  it 
is  that  women  show  more  sympathy  for  the  unfortunate  than 
men  do,  and  so  treat  them  with  more  kindness  and  interest ; 
and  why  it  is  that,  on  the  contrary,  they  are  inferior  to  men 
in  point  of  justice,  and  less  honorable  and  conscientious.  For 
it  is  just  because  their  reasoning  power  is  weak  that  present 
circumstances  have  such  a  hold  over  them,  and  those  concrete 
things,  which  lie  dire6lly  before  their  eyes,  exercise  a  power 
which  is  seldom  countera<5led  to  any  extent  by  abstract  prin- 
ciples of  thought,  by  fixed  rules  of  condu6^,  firm  resolutions, 
or,  in  general,  by  consideration  for  the  past  and  the  future,  or 
regard  lor  what  is  absent  and  remote.  Accordingly,  they 
possess  the  first  and  main  elements  that  go  to  make  a  virtuous 
charadler,  but  they  are  deficient  in  those  secondary  qualities 
which  are  often  a  necessary  instrument  in  the  formation  of  it.' 

Hence,  it  will  be  found  that  the  fundamental  fault  of  the 
female  chara6ter  is  that  it  has  no  sense  of  justice.  This  is  mainly 
due  to  the  fa6l,  already  mentioned,  that  women  are  defe6^ive 
in  the  powers  of  reasoning  and  deliberation  ;  but  it  is  also 
traceable  to  the  position  which  Nature  has  assigned  to  them 
as  the  weaker  sex.  They  are  dependent,  not  upon  strength, 
but  upon  craft;  and  hence  their  instindtive  capacity  for  cunning, 
and  their  ineradicable  tendency  to  say  what  is  not  true.  For 
as  lions  are  provided  with  claws  and  teeth,  and  elephants  and 
boars  with  tusks,  bulls  with  horns,  and  the  cuttle  fish  with  its 

'  In  this  respect  they  may  be  compared  to  an  animal  organism 
which  contains  a  liver  but  no  gall-bladder.  Here  let  me  refer  to  what 
I  have  said  in  my  treatise  on  The  Foundation  of  Morals,  \  17. 


OF    WOMEN.  71 

clouds  of- inky  fluid,  so  Nature  has  equipped  woman,  for  her 
defence  and  proteftion,  with  the  arts  of  dissimulation  ;  and  all 
the  power  which  Nature  has  conferred  upon  man  in  the  shape 
of  physical  strength  and  reason,  has  been  bestowed  upon 
women  in  this  form.  Hence,  dissimulation  is  innate  in  woman, 
and  almost  as  much  a  quality  of  the  stupid  as  of  the  clever.  It 
is  as  natural  for  them  to  make  use  of  it  on  every  occasion  as  it 
is  for  those  animals  to  employ  their  means  of  defence  when 
they  are  attacked  ;  they  have  a  feeling  that  in  doing  so  they 
are  only  within  their  rights.  Therefore  a  woman  who  is  per- 
fe6lly  truthful  and  not  given  to  dissimulation  is  perhaps  an 
impossibility,  and  for  this  very  reason  they  are  so  quick  at  see- 
ing through  dissimulation  in  others  that  it  is  not  a  wise  thing 
to  attempt  it  with  them.  But  this  fundamental  defe6l  which  I 
have  stated,  with  all  that  it  entails,  gives  rise  to  falsity,  faith- 
lessness, treachery,  ingratitude,  and  so  on.  Perjury  in  a  court 
of  justice  is  more  often  committed  by  women  than  by  men  It 
may,  indeed,  be  generally  questioned  whether  women  ought 
to  be  sworn  at  all.  From  time  to  time  one  finds  repeated  cases 
everywhere  of  ladies,  who  want  for  nothing,  taking  things 
from  shop-counters  when  no  one  is  looking,  and  making  off 
with  them. 

Nature  has  appointed  that  the  propagation  of  the  species 
shall  be  the  business  of  men  who  are  young,  strong  and  hand- 
some ;  so  that  the  race  may  not  degenerate.  .  This  is  the  firm 
will  and  purpose  of  Nature  in  regard  to  the  species,  and  it 
finds  its  expression  in  the  passions  of  women.  There  is  no  law 
that  is  older  or  more  powerful  than  this.  Woe,  then,  to  the 
man  who  sets  up  claims  and  interests  that  will  conflidl  with 
it ;  whatever  he  may  say  and  do,  they  will  be  unmercifully 
crushed  at  the  first  serious  encounter.  For  the  innate  rule 
that  governs  women's  conduct,  though  it  is  secret  and  un- 
formulated, nay,  unconscious  in  its  working,  is  this  :  We  are 
justified  in  deceiving  those  who  think  they  have  acquired  rights 
over  the  species  by  paying  little  atte?ition  to  the  individual,  that 
is,  to  us.  The  constitution  and,  therefore,  the  welfare  of  the 
species  have  been  placed  in  our  hands  and  committed  to  our  care. 


72  STUDIES    IN    PESSIMISM. 

through  the  control  we  obtain  over  the  next  generation,  which 
proceeds  /ro7ti  us ;  let  us  discharge  our  duties  conscieiitiously. 
But  women  have  no  abstract  knowledge  of  this  leading  prin- 
ciple ;  they  are  conscious  of  it  only  as  a  concrete  fact  ;  and 
they  have  no  other  method  of  giving  expression  to  it  than  the 
way  in  which  they  act  when  the  opportunity  arrives.  And  then 
their  conscience  does  not  trouble  them  so  much  as  we  fancy  ; 
for  in  the  darkest  recesses  of  their  heart,  they  are  aware  that 
in  committing  a  breach  of  their  duty  towards  the  individual, 
they  have  all  the  better  fulfilled  their  duty  towards  the  species, 
which  is  infinitely  greater.' 

And  since  women  exist  in  the  main  solely  for  the  propaga- 
tion of  the  species,  and  are  not  destined  for  anything  else,  they 
live,  as  a  rule,  more  for  the  species  than  for  the  individual, 
and  in  their  hearts  take  the  affairs  of  the  species  more  seriously 
than  those  of  the  individual.  This  gives  their  whole  life  and 
being  a  certain  levity  ;  the  general  bent  of  their  character  is  in 
a  dire6^ion  fundamentally  different  from  that  of  man  ;  and  it  is 
this  which  produces  that  discord  in  married  life  which  is  so 
frequent,  and  almost  the  normal  state. 

The  natural  feeling  between  men  is  mere  indifference,  but 
between  women  it  is  a6lual  enmity.  The  reason  of  this  is  that 
trade -jealousy — odium  Jigulinum — which,  in  the  case  of  men 
does  not  go  beyond  the  confines  of  their  own  particular  pur- 
suit ;  but,  with  women,  embraces  the  whole  sex  ;  since  they 
have  only  one  kind  of  business.  Even  when  they  meet  in  the 
street,  women  look  at  one  another  like  Guelphs  and  GhibeUines. 
And  it  is  a  patent  fa6l  that  when  two  women  make  first  ac- 
quaintance with  each  other,  they  behave  with  more  constraint 
and  dissimulation  than  two  men  would  show  in  a  like  case  ; 
and  hence  it  is  that  an  exchange  of  compliments  between  two 
women  is  a  much  more  ridiculous  proceeding  than  between 
two  men.  Further,  whilst  a  man  will,  as  a  general  rule,  al- 
ways preserve  a  certain  amount  of  consideration  and  humanity 
in  speaking  to  others,  even  to  those  who  are  in  a  very  inferior 

'  A  more  detailed  discussion  of  the  matter  in  question  may  be  found 
in  my  chief  work,  Die  Welt  als  Wille  unci  VorstelIun<r^  vol.  ii.  ch.  44. 


OF   WOMEN.  73 

position,  it  is  intolerable  to  see  how  proudly  and  disdainfully 
a  fine  lady  will  generally  behave  towards  one  who  is  in  a  lower 
social  rank  (I  do  not  mean  a  woman  who  is  in  her  service,  j 
whenever  she  speaks  to  her.  The  reason  of  this  may  be  that, 
with  women,  differences  of  rank  are  much  more  precarious 
than  with  us  ;  because,  while  a  hundred  considerations  carry 
weight  in  our  case,  in  theirs  there  is  only  one,  namely,  with 
which  man  they  have  found  favor  ;  as  also  that  they  stand  in 
much  nearer  relations  with  one  another  than  men  do,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  one-sided  nature  of  their  calling.  This  makes 
them  endeavor  to  lay  stress  upon  differences  of  rank. 

It  is  only  the  man  whose  intelleft  is  clouded  by  his  sexual 
impulses  that  could  give  the  name  oi  the  fair  sex  to  that  under- 
sized, narrow-shouldered,  broad-hipped,  and  short-legged 
race  ;  for  the  whole  beauty  of  the  sex  is  bound  up  with  this 
impulse.  Instead  of  calling  them  beautiful,  there  would  be 
more  warrant  for  describing  women  as  the  unaesthetic  sex. 
Neither  for  music,  nor  for  poetry,  nor  for  fine  art,  have  they 
really  and  truly  any  sense  or  susceptibility  ;  it  is  a  mere  mock- 
ery if  they  make  a  pretence  of  it  in  order  to  assist  their 
endeavor  to  please.  Hence,  as  a  result  of  this,  they  are 
incapable  of  taking  a  purely  objective  interest  \n  anything  ;  and 
the  reason  of  it  seems  to  me  to  be  as  follows.  A  man  tries  to 
acquire  direfi  mastery  over  things,  either  by  understanding 
them,  or  by  forcing  them  to  do  his  will.  But  a  woman  is 
always  and  everywhere  reduced  to  obtaining  this  mastery 
indireHly,  namely,  through  a  man  ;  and  whatever  dire6l 
mastery  she  may  have  is  entirely  confined  to  him.  And  so  it 
lies  in  woman's  nature  to  look  upon  everything  only  as  a 
means  for  conquering  man  ;  and  if  she  takes  an  interest  in 
anything  else,  it  is  simulated — a  mere  roundabout  way  of 
gaining  her  ends  by  coquetry,  and  feigning  what  she  does  not 
feel.  Hence,  even  Rousseau  declared  :  Women  have,  in  gen- 
eral, no  love  of  any  art ;  they  have  no  proper  knowledge  of  any  ; 
and  they  have  no  genius} 

>  Lettre  ^  d' Alembert.     Note  xx. 


74  STUDIES    IN   PESSIMISM. 

No  one  who  sees  at  all  below  the  surface  can  have  failed  to 
remark  the  same  thing.  You  need  only  observe  the  kind  of 
attention  women  bestow  upon  a  concert,  an  opera,  or  a  play — 
the  childish  simplicity,  for  example,  with  which  they  keep  on 
chattering  during  the  finest  passages  in  the  greatest  master- 
pieces. If  it  is  true  that  the  Greeks  excluded  women  from 
their  theatres,  they  were  quite  right  in  what  they  did  ;  at  any 
rate  you  would  have  been  able  to  hear  what  was  said  upon  the 
stage.  In  our  day,  besides,  or  in  lieu  of  saying,  Let  a  woman 
keep  silence  in  the  church,  it  would  be  much  to  the  point  to 
say.  Let  a  woman  keep  silence  in  the  theatre.  This  might, 
perhaps,  be  put  up  in  big  letters  on  the  curtain. 

And  you  cannot  expe<5l  anything  else  of  women  if  you  con- 
sider that  the  most  distinguished  intelledts  among  the  whole 
sex  have  never  managed  to  produce  a  single  achievement  in 
the  fine  arts  that  is  really  great,  genuine,  and  original ;  or 
given  to  the  world  any  work  of  permanent  value  in  any  sphere. 
This  is  most  strikingly  shown  in  regard  to  painting,  where 
mastery  of  technique  is  at  least  as  much  within  their  power  as 
within  ours — and  hence  they  are  diligent  in  cultivating  it ;  but 
still,  they  have  not  a  single  great  painting  to  boast  of,  just 
because  they  are  deficient  in  that  objectivity  of  mind  which  is 
so  dire6lly  indispensable  in  painting.  They  never  get  beyond 
a  subje<ftive  point  of  view.  It  is  quite  in  keeping  with  this  that 
ordinary  women  have  no  real  susceptibility  for  art  at  all ;  for 
Nature  proceeds  in  stri6l  sequence — non  facit  saltum.  And 
Huarte'  in  his  Exam£n  de  ingenios  para  las  scienzias — a  book 
which  has  been  famous  for  three  hundred  years — denies 
women  the  possession  of  all  the  higher  faculties.  The  case  is 
not  altered  by  particular  and  partial  exceptions  ;  taken  as  a 
whole,  women  are,  and  remain,  thorough-going  Philistines, 
and  quite  incurable.  Hence,  with  that  absurd  arrangement 
which  allows  them  to  share  the  rank  and  title  of  their  hus- 
bands, they  are  a  constant  stimulus  to  his  ignoble  ambitions. 

'  Translator's  Note.  Juan  Huarte  (1520?-  1590)  practised  as  a 
physician  at  Madrid.  The  work  cited  by  Schopenhauer  is  well 
known,  and  has  been  translated  into  many  languages. 


ON   EDUCATION.  -      .       .  ^^ 

And,  further,  it  is  just  because  they  are  Philistines  that  modem 
society,  where  they  take  the  lead  and  set  the  tone,  is  in  such 
a  bad  way.  Napoleon's  saying — that  women  have  no  rank — 
should  be  adopted  as  the  right  standpoint  in  determining  their 
position  in  society  ;  and  as  regards  their  other  qualities, 
Chamfort  *  makes  the  very  true  remark  :  They  are  made  to 
trade  with  our  own  weaknesses  and  our  follies,  but  not  with  our 
reason.  The  sympathies  that  exist  between  them  and  men  are 
skin-deep  only,  and  do  not  touch  the  mind  or  the  feelings  or  the 
character.  They  form  the  sexus  sequior — the  second  sex, 
inferior  in  every  respe6l  to  the  first ;  their  infirmities  should 
be  treated  with  consideration  ;  but  to  show  them  great  rever- 
ence is  extremely  ridiculous,  and  lowers  us  in  their  eyes. 
When  Nature  made  two  divisions  of  the  human  race,  she  did 
not  draw  the  line  exadly  through  the  middle.  These  divisions 
are  polar  and  opposed  to  each  other,  it  is  true  ;  but  the  differ- 
ence between  them  is  not  qualitative  merely,  it  is  also  quanti- 
tative. 

This  is  just  the  view  which  the  ancients  took  of  woman,  and 
the  view  which  people  in  the  East  take  now  ;  and  their  judg- 
ment as  to  her  proper  position  is  much  more  correft  than  ours, 
with  our  old  French  notions  of  gallantry  and  our  preposterous 
system  of  reverence — that  highest  produd;  of  Teutonico- 
Christian  stupidity.  These  notions  have  served  only  to  make 
women  more  arrogant  and  overbearing  ;  so  that  one  is  occa- 
sionally reminded  of  the  holy  apes  in  Benares,  who  in  the 
consciousness  of  their  sanctity  and  inviolable  position,  think 
they  can  do  exadlly  as  they  please. 

But  in  the  West,  the  woman,  and  especially  the  lady,  finds 
herself  in  a  false  position  ;  for  woman,  rightly  called  by  the 
ancients,  sexus  sequior,  is  by  no  means  fit  to  be  the  object  of 
our  honor  and  veneration,  or  to  hold  her  head  higher  than 
man  and  be  on  equal  terms  with  him.  The  consequences  of 
this  false  position  are  sufficiently  obvious.  Accordingly,  it 
would  be  a  very  desirable  thing  if  this  Number-Two  of  the 

"  Translator's  Note.    See  Counsels  and  Maxims,  p.  12,  Note. 


76  STUDIES   IN    PESSIMISM. 

human  race  were  in  Europe  also  relegated  to  her  natural 
place,  and  an  end  put  to  that  lady  nuisance,  which  not  only 
moves  all  Asia  to  laughter,  but  would  have  been  ridiculed  by 
Greece  and  Rome  as  well.  It  is  impossible  to  calculate  the 
good  effe6^s  which  such  a  change  would  bring  about  in  our 
social,  civil  and  political  arrangements.  There  would  be  no 
necessity  for  the  Salic  law  :  it  would  be  a  superfluous  truism. 
In  Europe  the  lady,  stri6lly  so-called,  is  a  being  who  should 
not  exist  at  all  ;  she  should  be  either  a  housewife  or  a  girl 
who  hopes  to  become  one  ;  and  she  should  be  brought  up, 
not  to  be  arrogant,  but  to  be  thrifty  and  submissive.  It  is  just 
because  there  are  such  people  as  ladies  in  Europe  that  the 
women  of  the  lower  classes,  that  is  to  say,  the  great  majority 
of  the  sex,  are  much  more  unhappy  than  they  are  in  the  East. 
And  even  Lord  Byron  says:  Thous^  fit  of  the  state  of  women  under 
the  ancient  Greeks — convenient  enough.  Present  state,  a  rem- 
nant of  the  barbarism  of  the  chivalric  and  the  fetidal  ages — 
artificial  and  unnatural.  They  ought  to  mind  home — and  be 
well  fed  and  clothed — but  not  mixed  in  society.  Well  educated, 
too,  in  religion — bid  to  read  neither  poetry  nor  politics — nothing 
but  books  of  piety  and  cookery.  Music —  drawiiig — dancing — 
also  a  little  gardening  and  ploughing  now  and  then.  I  have 
seen  them  mending  the  roads  in  Epirus  with  good  success.  Why 
not,  as  well  as  hay-making  and  milking  ? 

The  laws  of  marriage  prevailing  in  Europe  consider  the 
woman  as  the  equivalent  of  the  man — start,  that  is  to  say,  from 
a  wrong  position.  In  our  part  of  the  world  where  monogamy 
is  the  rule,  to  marry  means  to  halve  one's  rights  and  double 
one's  duties.  Now,  when  the  laws  gave  women  equal  rights 
with  man,  they  ought  to  have  also  endowed  her  with  a  mascu- 
line intelle6l.  But  the  fa(5l  is,  that  just  in  proportion  as  the 
honors  and  privileges  which  the  laws  accord  to  women,  exceed 
the  amount  which  nature  gives,  is  there  a  diminution  in  the 
number  of  women  who  really  participate  in  these  privileges  ; 
and  all  the  remainder  are  deprived  of  their  natural  rights  by 
just  so  much  as  is  given  to  the  others  over  and  above  their 
share.     For  the  institution   of  monogamy,  and  the  laws  of 


OF    WOMEN.  77 

marriage  which  it  entails,  bestow  upon  the  woman  an  unnatural 
position  of  privilege,  by  considering  her  throughout  as  the 
full  equivalent  of  the  man,  which  is  by  no  means  the  case  ;  and 
seeing  this,  men  who  are  shrewd  and  prudent  very  often 
scruple  to  make  so  great  a  sacrifice  and  to  acquiesce  in  so 
unfair  an  arrangement. 

Consequently,  whilst  among  polygamous  nations  every 
woman  is  provided  for,  where  monogamy  prevails  the  number 
of  married  women  is  limited  ;  and  there  remains  over  a  large 
number  of  women  without  stay  or  support,  who,  in  the  upper 
classes,  vegetate  as  useless  old  maids,  and  in  the  lower  suc- 
cumb to  hard  work  for  which  they  are  not  suited  ;  or  else 
become yil/es  de  joie,  whose  life  is  as  destitute  of  joy  as  it  is  of 
honor.  But  under  the  circumstances  they  become  a  necessity  ; 
and  their  position  is  openly  recognized  as  serving  the  special 
end  of  warding  off  temptation  from  those  women  favored  by 
fate,  who  have  found,  or  may  hope  to  tind,  husbands.  In 
London  alone  there  are  80,000  prostitutes.  What  are  they 
but  the  women,  who,  under  the  institution  of  monogamy  have 
come  off  worse?  Theirs  is  a  dreadful  fate  :  they  are  human 
sacrifices  offered  up  on  the  altar  of  monogamy.  The  women 
whose  wretched  position  is  here  described  are  the  inevitable 
set-off  to  the  European  lady  with  her  arrogance  and  pretension. 
Polygamy  is  therefore  a  real  benefit  to  the  female  sex  if  it  is 
taken  as  a  whole.  And,  from  another  point  of  view,  there  is 
no  true  reason  why  a  man  whose  wife  suffers  from  chronic  ill- 
ness, or  remains  barren,  or  has  gradually  become  too  old  for 
him,  should  not  take  a  second.  The  motives  which  induce  so 
many  people  to  become  converts  to  Mormonism'  appear  to 
be  just  those  which  militate  against  the  unnatural  institution 
of  monogamy. 

Moreover,  the  bestowal  of  unnatural  rights  upon  women  has 
imposed  upon  them  unnatural  duties,  and,  nevertheless,  a 
breach  of  these  duties  makes  them  unhappy.  Let  me  explain. 
A  man  may  often  think  that  his  social  or  financial  position  will 

'  Translator' s  Note.  The  Mormt>ns  have  recently  given  up  polyg- 
amy, and  received  the  American  franchise  in  its  stead. 


78  STUDIES    IN    PESSIMISM. 

suffer  if  he  marries,  unless  he  makes  some  brilliant  alliance. 
His  desire  will  then  be  to  win  a  woman  of  his  own  choice 
under  conditions  other  than  those  of  marriage,  such  as  will 
secure  her  position  and  that  of  the  children.  However  fair, 
reasonable,  fit  and  proper  these  conditions  may  be,  and  the 
women  consents  by  foregoing  that  undue  amount  of  privilege 
which  marriage  alone  can  bestow,  she  to  some  extent  loses  her 
honor,  because  marriage  is  the  basis  of  civic  society  ;  and  she 
will  lead  an  unhappy  life,  since  human  nature  is  so  constituted 
that  we  pay  an  attention  to  the  opinion  of  other  people  which 
is  out  of  all  proportion  to  its  value.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
she  does  not  consent,  she  runs  the  risk  either  of  having  to  be 
given  in  marriage  to  a  man  whom  she  does  not  like,  or  of 
being  landed  high  and  dry  as  an  old  maid  ;  for  the  period 
during  which  she  has  a  chance  of  being  settled  for  life  is  very 
short.  And  in  view  of  this  aspe<5l  of  the  institution  of  monog- 
amy, Thomasius'  profoundly  learned  treatise,  de  Concubinatu, 
is  well  worth  reading  ;  for  it  shows  that,  amongst  all  nations 
and  in  all  ages,  down  to  the  Lutheran  Reformation,  concubin- 
age was  permitted  ;  nay,  that  it  was  an  institution  which  was 
to  a  certain  extent  adlually  recognized  by  law,  and  attended 
with  no  dishonor.  It  was  only  the  Lutheran  Reformation 
that  degraded  it  from  this  position.  It  was  seen  to  be  a  fur- 
ther justification  for  the  marriage  of  the  clergy  ;  and  then, 
after  that,  the  Catholic  Church  did  not  dare  to  remain  behind- 
hand in  the  matter.  ? 

There  is  no  use  arguing  about  polygamy  ;  it  must  be  taken  as 
de  fa£lo  existing  everywhere,  and  the  only  question  is  as  to  how 
it  shall  be  regulated.  Where  are  there,  then,  any  real  mon- 
ogomists  ■?  We  all  live,  at  any  rate,  for  a  time,  and  most  of 
us,  always,  in  polygamy.  And  so,  since  every  man  needs 
many  women,  there  is  nothing  fairer  than  to  allow  him,  nay, 
to  make  it  incumbent  upon  him,  to  provide  for  many  women. 
This  will  reduce  woman  to  her  true  and  natural  position  as  a 
subordinate  being  ;  and  the  lady — that  monster  of  European 
civilization  and  Teutonico-Christian  stupidity — will  disappear 


OF    WOMEN.  79 

from  the  world,  leaving  only  women,  but  no  more  unhappy 
women,  of  whom  Europe  is  now  full. 

In  India,  no  woman  is  ever  independent,  but  in  accordance 
with  the  law  of  Manu,'  she  stands  under  the  control  of  her 
father,  her  husband,  her  brother  or  her  son.  It  is,  to  be  sure, 
a  revolting  thing  that  a  widow  should  immolate  herself  upon 
her  husband's  funeral  pyre  ;  but  it  is  also  revolting  that  she 
should  spend  her  husband's  money  with  her  paramours — the 
money  for  which  he  toiled  his  whol  life  Ion  in  the  consoling 
belief  that  he  was  providing  for  his  children.  Happy  are  those 
who  have  kept  the  middle  course — medium  tenuere  beati. 

The  first  love  of  a  mother  for  her  child  is,  with  the  lower 
animals  as  with  men,  of  a  purely  instinctive  chara6ler,  and  so 
it  ceases  when  the  child  is  no  longer  in  a  physically  helpless 
condition.  After  that,  the  first  love  should  give  way  to  one 
that  is  based  on  habit  and  reason  ;  but  this  often  fails  to  make 
its  appearance,  especially  where  the  mother  did  not  love  the 
father.  The  love  of  a  father  for  his  child  is  of  a  different  order, 
and  more  likely  to  last ;  because  it  has  its  foundation  in  the 
fa6l  that  in  the  child  he  recognizes  his  own  inner  self;  that  is 
to  say,  his  love  for  it  is  metaphysical  in  its  origin. 

In  almost  all  nations,  whether  of  the  ancient  or  the  modem 
world,  even  amongst  the  Hottentots,  property  is  inherited  by 
the  male  descendants  alone  ;  it  is  only  in  Europe  that  a  de- 
parture has  taken  place  ;  but  not  amongst  the  nobility,  how- 
ever. That  the  property  which  has  cost  men  long  years  ^i 
toil  and  effort,  and  been  won  with  so  much  difficulty,  should 
afterwards  come  into  the  hands  of  women,  who  then,  in  their 
lack  of  reason,  squander  it  in  a  short  time,  or  otherwise  fool  it 
away,  is  a  grieveance  and  a  wrong,  as  ;  rious  as  it  is  common, 
which  should  be  prevented  by  limiting  the  right  of  women  to 
inherit.  In  my  opinion,  the  best  arrangement  would  be  that 
by  which  women,  whether  widows  or  daughters,  should  never 
receive  anything   beyond    the  interest  for   life   on    property 

«Ch.  v.,  v.  148, 

•  Leroy,  Lettres  philosophiques  sur  V  intelligence  et  la  per/eBibiliti 
des  anitnaux,  avec  que Iques  lettres  sur  I'homme,  p.  298,  Paris,  1802. 


80  STUDIES    IN    PESSIMISM. 

secured  by  mortgage,  and  in  no  case  the  property  itself,  or  the 
capital,  except  where  all  male  descendants  fail.  The  people 
who  make  money  are  men,  not  women  ;  and  it  follows  from 
this  that  women  are  neither  justified  in  having  unconditional 
possession  of  it,  nor  fit  persons  to  be  entrusted  with  its  ad- 
ministration. When  wealth,  in  any  true  sense  of  the  word,  that 
is  to  say,  funds,  houses  or  land,  is  to  go  to  them  as  an  in- 
heritance, they  should  never  be  allowed  the  free  disposition  of 
it.  In  their  case  a  guardian  should  always  be  appointed  ;  and 
hence  they  should  never  be  given  the  free  control  of  their  own 
children,  wherever  it  can  be  avoided.  The  vanity  of  women, 
even  though  it  should  not  prove  to  be  greater  than  that  of 
men,  has  this  much  danger  in  it,  that  it  takes  an  entirely 
material  dire6lion.  They  are  vain,  I  mean,  of  their  personal 
beauty,  and  then  of  finery,  show  and  magnificence.  That  is 
just  why  they  are  so  much  in  their  element  in  society.  It  is 
this,  too,  which  makes  them  so  inclined  to  be  extravagant,  all 
the  more  as  their  reasoning  power  is  low.  Accordingly  we 
find  an  ancient  writer  describing  woman  as  in  general  of  an 
extravagant  nature — Twi)  rb  arivoXov  ian  danavvpbv  ♦tiffci.'  But  with 
men  vanity  often  takes  the  diredlion  of  non-material  advant- 
ages, such  as  intelledl,  learning,  courage. 

In  the  Politick  Aristotle  explains  the  great  disadvantage 
which  accrued  to  the  Spartans  from  the  fa6l  that  they  conceded 
too  much  to  their  women,  by  giving  thcni  the  right  of  in- 
heritance and  dower,  and  a  great  amount  of  independence  ; 
and  he  shows  how  much  this  contributed  to  Sparta's  fall.  May 
it  not  be  the  case  in  France  that  the  influence  of  women,  which 
went  on  increasing  steadily  from  the  time  of  Louis  XIII..  was 
to  blame  for  that  gradual  corruption  of  the  Court  and  the 
Government,  which  brought  about  the  Revolution  of  1789,  of 
which  all  subsequent  disturbances  have  been  the  fruit  ?  How- 
ever that  may  be,  the  false  position  which  women  occupy, 

'Brunck's  Gnomici  poetae  graeci,  v.  115. 
*Bk.  I.,cn.  9. 


OF   WOMEN.  Si 

demonstrated  as  it  is,  in  the  most  glaring  way,  by  the  institu- 
tion of  the  lady,  is  a  fundamental  defeat  in  our  social  scheme, 
and  this  defe6l,  proceeding  from  the  very  heart  of  it,  must 
spread  its  baneful  influence  in  all  dire6lions. 


That  woman  is  by  nature  meant  to  obey  may  be  seen  by  the 
fa6l  that  every  woman  who  is  placed  in  the  unnatural  position 
of  complete  independence,  immediately  attaches  herself  to 
some  man,  by  whom  she  allows  herself  to  be  guided  and  ruled. 
It  is  because  she  needs  a  lord  and  master.  If  she  is  young,  it 
will  be  a  lover  ;  if  she  is  old,  a  priest. 


ON  NOISE. 

KANT  wrote  a  treatise  on  The  Vital  Powers.  I  should 
prefer  to  write  a  dirge  for  them.  The  super-abundant 
display  of  vitality,  which  takes  the  form  of  knocking,  hammer- 
ing, and  tumbling  things  about,  has  proved  a  daily  torment  to 
me  all  my  life  long.  There  are  people,  it  is  true — nay,  a  great 
many  people — who  smile  at  such  things,  because  they  are  not 
sensitive  to  noise  ;  but  they  are  just  the  very  people  who  are 
also  not  sensitive  to  argument,  or  thought,  or  poetry,  or  art, 
in  a  word,  to  any  kind  of  intelle6lual  influence.  The  reason 
of  it  is  that  the  tissue  of  their  brains  is  of  a  very  rough  and 
coarse  quality.  On  the  other  hand,  noise  is  a  torture  to 
intelle6tual  people.  In  the  biographies  of  almost  all  great 
writers,  or  wherever  else  their  personal  utterances  are  recorded, 
I  find  complaints  about  it ;  in  the  case  of  Kant,  for  instance, 
Goethe,  Lichtenberg,  Jean  Paul  ;  and  if  it  should  happen  that 
any  writer  has  omitted  to  express  himself  on  the  matter,  it  is 
only  for  want  of  an  opportunity. 

This  aversion  to  noise  I  should  explain  as  follows  :  If  you 
cut  up  a  large  diamond  into  little  bits,  it  will  entirely  lose  the 
value  it  had  as  a  whole ;  and  an  army  divided  up  into  small 
bodies  of  soldiers,  loses  all  its  strength.  So  a  great  intelle(5t 
sinks  to  the  level  of  an  ordinary  one,  as  soon  as  it  is  interrupted 
and  disturbed,  its  attention  distra6led  and  drawn  off  from  the 
matter  in  hand  ;  for  its  superiority  depends  upon  its  power  of 
concentration — of  bringing  all  its  strength  to  bear  upon  one 
theme,  in  the  same  way  as  a  concave  mirror  collects  into  one 
point  all  the  rays  of  light  that  strike  upon  it.  Noisy  inter- 
ruption is  a  hindrance  to  this  concentration.     That  is  why  dis- 

(82) 


ON  NOISE.  '3 

tinguished  minds  have  always  shown  such  an  extreme  dislike  to 
disturbance  in  any  form,  as  something  that  breaks  in  upon  and 
distrads  their  thoughts.  Above  all  have  they  been  averse  to 
that  violent  interruption  that  comes  from  noise.  Ordinary 
people  are  not  much  put  out  by  anything  of  the  sort.  The 
most  sensible  and  intelligent  of  all  the  nations  in  Europe  lays 
down  the  rule,  Never  Interrupt!  as  the  eleventh  command- 
ment. Noise  is  the  most  impertinent  of  all  forms  of  interrup- 
tion. It  is  not  only  an  interruption,  but  also  a  disruption  of 
thought.  Of  course,  where  there  is  nothing  to  interrupt, 
noise  will  not  be  so  particularly  painful.  Occasionally  it  hap- 
pens that  some  slight  but  constant  noise  continues  to  bother 
and  distra<^\  me  for  a  time  before  I  become  distin6tly  conscious 
of  it.  All  I  feel  is  a  steady  increase  in  the  labor  of  thinking — 
just  as  though  I  were  trying  to  walk  with  a  weight  on  my  foot. 
At  last  I  find  out  what  it  is. 

Let  me  now,  however,  pass  from  genus  to  species.  The 
most  inexcusable  and  disgraceful  of  all  noises  is  the  cracking 
of  whips — a  truly  infernal  thing  when  it  is  done  in  the  narrow 
resounding  streets  of  a  town.  I  denounce  it  as  making  a 
peaceful  life  impossible  ;  it  puts  an  end  to  all  quiet  thought. 
That  this  cracking  of  whips  should  be  allowed  at  all  seems  to 
me  to  show  in  the  clearest  way  how  senseless  and  thoughtless 
is  the  nature  of  mankind.  No  one  with  anything  like  an  idea 
in  his  head  can  avoid  a  feeling  of  a<5iual  pain  at  this  sudden, 
sharp  crack,  which  paralyzes  the  brain,  rends  the  thread  of 
reflection,  and  murders  thought.  Every  time  this  noise  is 
made,  it  must  disturb  a  hundred  people  who  are  applying  their 
minds  to  business  of  some  sort,  no  matter  how  trivial  it  may 
be  ;  while  on  the  thinker  its  effe6l  is  woeful  and  disastrous, 
cutting  his  thoughts  asunder,  much  as  the  executioner's  axe 
severs  the  head  from  the  body.  No  sound,  be  it  ever  so  shrill, 
cuts  so  sharply  into  the  brain  as  this  cursed  cracking  of  whips  ; 
you  feel  the  sting  of  the  lash  right  inside  your  head  ;  and  it 
affe<5ls  the  brain  in  the  same  way  as  touch  affects  a  sensitive 
plant,  and  for  the  same  length  of  time. 


84  STUDIES    IN   PESSIMISM. 

With  all  due  respedl  for  the  most  holy  do6lrine  of  utility,  I 
really  cannot  see  why  a  fellow  who  is  taking  away  a  wagon- 
load  of  gravel  or  dung  should  thereby  obtain  the  right  to  kill 
in  the  bud  the  thoughts  which  may  happen  to  be  springing 
up  in  ten  thousand  heads — the  number  he  will  disturb  one  after 
another  in  half  an  hour's  drive  through  the  town.  Hammer- 
ing, the  barking  of  dogs,  and  the  crying  of  children  are 
horrible  to  hear  ;  but  your  only  genuine  assassin  of  thought  is 
the  crack  of  a  whip  ;  it  exists  for  the  purpose  of  destroying 
every  pleasant  moment  of  quiet  thought  that  any  one  may  now 
and  then  enjoy.  If  the  driver  had  no  other  way  of  urging  on 
his  horse  than  by  making  this  most  abominable  of  all  noises, 
it  would  be  excusable  ;  but  quite  the  contrary  is  the  case. 
This  cursed  cracking  of  whips  is  not  only  unnecessary,  but 
even  useless.  Its  aim  is  to  produce  an  effect  upon  the 
intelligence  of  the  horse  ;  but  through  the  constant  abuse 
of  it,  the  animal  becomes  habituated  to  the  sound,  which 
falls  upon  blunted  feelings  and  produces  no  effe6l  at  all. 
The  horse  does  not  go  any  the  faster  for  it.  You  have 
a  remarkable  example  of  this  in  the  ceaseless  cracking  of 
his  whip  on  the  part  of  a  cab-driver,  while  he  is  pro- 
ceeding at  a  slow  pace  on  the  lookout  for  a  fare.  If  he 
were  to  give  his  horse  the  slightest  touch  with  the  whip,  it 
would  have  much  more  effedl.  Supposing,  however,  that  it 
were  absolutely  necessary  to  crack  the  whip  in  order  to  keep 
the  horse  constantly  in  mind  of  its  presence,  it  would  be  enough 
to  make  the  hundredth  part  of  the  noise.  For  it  is  a  well- 
known  fa<5t  that,  in  regard  to  sight  and  hearing,  animals  are 
sensitive  to  even  the  faintest  indications  ;  they  are  alive  to 
things  that  we  can  scarcely  perceive.  The  most  surprising 
instances  of  this  are  furnished  by  trained  dogs  and  canary  birds. 

It  is  obvious,  therefore,  that  here  we  have  to  do  with  an  a6l 
of  pure  wantonness  ;  nay,  with  an  impudent  defiance  offered 
to  those  members  of  the  community  who  work  with  their 
heads  by  those  who  work  with  their  hands.  That  such 
infamy  should  be  tolerated   in  a  town   is  a  piece  of  bar- 


ON    NOISE.  9S 

barity  and  iniquity,  all  the  more  as  it  could  easily  be 
remedied  by  a  police-notice  to  the  effe6l  that  every  lash 
shall  have  a  knot  at  the  end  of  it.  There  can  be  no  harm  in 
drawing  the  attention  of  the  mob  to  the  fa6l  that  the  classes 
above  them  work  with  their  heads,  for  any  kind  of  headwork 
is  mortal  anguish  to  the  man  in  the  street.  A  fellow  who  rides 
through  the  narrow  alleys  of  a  populous  town  with  unemployed 
post  horses  or  cart-horses,  and  keeps  on  cracking  a  whip 
several  yards  long  with  all  his  might,  deserves  there  and 
then  to  stand  down  and  receive  five  really  good  blows  with 
a  stick. 

All  the  philanthropists  in  the  world,  and  all  the  legislators, 
meeting  to  advocate  and  decree  the  total  abolition  of  corporal 
punishment,  will  never  persuade  me  to  the  contrary  !  There 
is  something  even  more  disgraceful  than  what  I  have  just  men- 
tioned. Often  enough  you  may  see  a  carter  w^alking  along 
the  street,  quite  alone,  without  any  horses,  and  still  cracking 
away  incessantly  ;  so  accustomed  has  the  wretch  become  to  it 
in  consequence  of  the  unwarrantable  toleration  of  this  praftice. 
A  man's  body  and  the  needs  of  his  body  are  now  every- 
where treated  with  a  tender  indulgence.  Is  the  thinking 
mind  then,  to  be  the  only  thing  that  is  never  to  obtain  the 
slightest  measure  of  consideration  or  prote<5lion,  to  say  nothing 
of  respe6l  ?  Carters,  porters,  messengers — these  are  the  beasts 
of  burden  amongst  mankind  ;  by  all  means  let  them  be  treated 
justly,  fairly,  indulgently,  and  with  forethought ;  but  they  must 
not  be  permitted  to  stand  in  the  way  of  the  higher  endeavors 
of  humanity  by  wantonly  making  a  noise.  How  many  great 
and  splendid  thoughts,  I  should  like  to  know,  have  been  lost 
to  the  world  by  the  crack  of  a  whip  ?  If  I  had  the  upper  hand, 
I  should  soon  produce  in  the  heads  of  these  people  an  indis- 
soluble association  of  ideas  between  cracking  a  whip  and  getting 
a  whipping. 

Let  us  hope  that  the  more  intelligent  and  refined  among 
the  nations  will  make  a  beginning  in  this  matter,  and 
then  that  the  Germans  may  take  example   by  it  and  follow 


86  STUDIES    IN    PESSIMISM. 

suit.*  Meanwhile,  I  may  quote  what  Thomas  Hood  says  of 
them' :  For  a  musical  nation,  they  are  the  most  noisy  I  ever 
met  with.  That  they  are  so  is  due  to  the  fa6l,  not  that  they 
are  more  fond  of  making  a  noise  than  other  people — they 
would  deny  it  if  you  asked  them — but  that  their  senses  are 
obtuse  ;  consequently,  when  they  hear  a  noise,  it  does  not 
affe<^l  them  much.  It  does  not  disturb  them  in  reading  or 
thinking,  simply  because  they  do  not  think  ;  they  only  smoke, 
which  is  their  substitute  for  thought.  The  general  toleration 
of  unnecessary  noise — the  slamming  of  doors,  for  instance,  a 
very  unmannerly  and  ill-bred  thing — is  dire6l  evidence  that 
the  prevailing  habit  of  mind  is  dullness  and  lack  of  thought.  In 
Germany  it  seems  as  though  care  were  taken  that  no  one 
should  ever  think  for  mere  noise — to  mention  one  form  of  it, 
the  way  in  which  drumming  goes  on  for  no  pilmose  at  all. 

Finally,  as  regards  the  literature  of  the  subject  treated  of  in 
this  chapter,  I  have  only  one  work  to  recommend,  but  it  is  a 
good  one.  I  refer  to  a  poetical  epistle  in  terzo  rimo  by  the 
famous  painter  Bronzino,  entitled  De''  Romori :  a  Messer  Luca 
Martini.  It  gives  a  detailed  description  of  the  torture  to  which 
people  are  put  by  the  various  noises  of  a  small  Italian  town. 
Written  in  a  tragi-comic  style,  it  is  very  amusing.  The  epistle 
may  be  found  in  Opere  burlesche  del  Berni,  Aretino  ed  altri. 
Vol.  II.,  p.  258  ;  apparently  published  in  Utrecht  in  1771. 

'  According  to  a  notice  issued  by  the  Society  for  the  Prote<Sion  of 
Animals  in  Munich,  the  superfluous  whipping  and  the  cracking  of 
whips  were,  in  December,  1858,  positively  forbidden  in  Nuremberg. 

»  In  Up  the  Rhine. 


A  FEW  PARABLES. 

IN  a  field  of  ripening  corn  I  came  to  a  place  which  had 
been  trampled  down  by  some  ruthless  foot ;  and  as  I 
glanced  amongst  the  countless  stalks,  every  one  of  them  alike, 
standing  there  so  ere6l  and  bearing  the  full  weight  of  the  ear, 
I  saw  a  multitude  of  different  flowers,  red  and  blue  and  violet. 
How  pretty  they  looked  as  they  grew  there  so  naturally  with 
their  little  foliage  !  But,  thought  I,  they  are  quite  useless  ; 
they  bear  no  fruit ;  they  are  mere  weeds,  suffered  to  remain 
only  because  thefe  is  no  getting  rid  of  them.  And  yet,  but 
for  these  flowers,  there  would  be  nothing  to  charm  the  eye 
in  that  wilderness  of  stalks.  They  are  emblematic  of  poetry 
and  art,  which,  in  civic  life — so  severe,  but  still  useful  and  not 
without  its  fruit — play  the  same  part  as  flowers  in  the  corn. 

There  are  some  really  beautiful  landscapes  in  the  world,  but 
the  human  figures  in  them  are  poor,  and  you  had  not  better 
look  at  them. 

•  •  •  •  •  •  - 

The  fly  should  be  used  as  the  symbol  of  impertinence  and 
audacity  ;  for  whilst  all  other  animals  shun  man  more  than 
anything  else,  and  run  away  even  before  he  comes  near  them, 
the  fly  lights  upon  his  very  nose. 

Two  Chinamen  traveling  in  Europe  went  to  the  theatre  for 
the  first  time.  One  of  them  did  nothing  but  study  the  machin- 
ery, and  he  succeeded  in  finding  out  how  it  was  worked.  The 
other  tried  to  get  at  the  meaning  of  the  piece  in  spite  of  his 

(87) 


88  STUDIES    IN    PESSIMISM. 

ignorance  of  the  language.     Here  you  have  the  Astronomer 
and  the  Philosopher. 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

Wisdom  which  is  only  theoretical  and  never  put  into  prac- 
tice, is  like  a  double  rose  ;  its  color  and  perfume  are  delightful, 
but  it  withers  away  and  leaves  no  seed. 

No  rose  without  a  thorn.  Yes,  but  many  a  thorn  without 
a  rose. 

•  ••••« 

A  wide-spreading  apple-tree  stood  in  full  bloom,  and  behind 
it  a  straight  fir  raised  its  dark  and  tapering  head.  Look  at  the 
thousands  of  gay  blossoms  which  cover  me  everywhere^  said  the 
apple-tree  ;  what  have  you  to  show  i7i  comparison  ?  Dark-green 
needles  f  That  is  true,  replied  the  fir,  but  when  winter  comes, 
you  will  be  bared  of  your  glory  ;  and  I  shall  be  as  I  am  now. 

Once,  as  I  was  botanizing  under  an  oak,  I  found  amongst 
a  number  of  other  plants  of  similar  height  one  that  was  dark  in 
color,  with  tightly  closed  leaves  and  a  stalk  that  was  very 
straight  and  stiff.  When  I  touched  it,  it  said  to  me  in  firm  tones  : 
L.et  me  alo7ie  ;  I  am  not  for  your  collenion,  like  these  plants  to 
which  Nature  has  given  only  a  single  year  of  life.  I  am  a 
little  oak. 

So  it  is  with  a  man  whose  influence  is  to  last  for  hundreds  of 
years.  As  a  child,  as  a  youth,  often  even  as  a  full-grown  man, 
nay,  his  whole  life  long,  he  goes  about  among  his  fellows,  look- 
ing Uke  them  and  seemingly  as  unimportant.  But  let  him 
alone  ;  he  will  not  die.  Time  will  come  and  bring  those  who 
know  how  to  value  him. 

■  ••••• 

The  man  who  goes  up  in  a  balloon  does  not  feel  as  though 
he  were  ascending  ;  he  only  sees  the  earth  sinking  deeper 
under  him. 

This  is  a  mystery  which  only  those  will  understand  who  feel 
the  truth  of  it. 


A   FEW   PARABLES.  89 

Your  estimation  of  a  man's  size  will  be  affe6led  by  the 
distance  at  which  you  stand  from  him,  but  in  two  entirely 
opposite  ways  according  as  it  is  his  physical  or  his  mental 
stature  that  you  are  considering.  The  one  will  seem  smaller, 
the  farther  off  you  move  ;  the  other,  greater.  . 


Nature  covers  all  her  works  with  a  varnish  of  beauty,  like 
the  tender  bloom  that  is  breathed,  as  it  were,  on  the  surface  of 
a  peach  or  a  plum.  Painters  and  poets  lay  themselves  out  to 
take  off  this  varnish,  to  store  it  up,  and  give  it  us  to  be  enjoyed 
at  our  leisure.  We  drink  deep  of  this  beauty  long  before  we 
entLi  upon  life  itself;  and  when  afterwards  we  come  to  see  the 
works  of  Nature  for  ourselves,  the  varnish  is  gone  :  the  artists 
have  used  it  up  and  we  have  enjoyed  it  in  advance.  Thus  it  is 
that  the  world  so  often  appears  harsh  and  devoid  of  charm, 
nay,  a6lually  repulsive.  It  were  better  to  leave  us  to  discover 
the  varnish  for  ourselves.  This  would  mean  that  we  should 
not  enjoy  it  all  at  once  and  in  large  quantities ;  we  should 
have  no  finished  pictures,  no  perfe6t  poems  ;  but  we  should 
look  at  all  things  in  that  genial  and  pleasing  light  in  which 
even  now  a  child  of  Nature  sometimes  sees  them — some  one 
who  has  not  anticipated  his  aesthetic  pleasures  by  the  help  of 
art,  or  taken  the  charms  of  life  too  early. 


The  Cathedral  in  Mayence  is  so  shut  in  by  the  houses  that 
are  built  round  about  it,  that  there  is  no  one  spot  from  which 
you  can  see  it  as  a  whole.  This  is  symbolic  of  everything 
great  or  beautiful  in  the  world.  It  ought  to  exist  for  its  own 
sake  alone,  but  before  very  long  it  is  misused  to  serve  alien 
ends.  People  come  from  all  directions  wanting  to  find  in  it 
support  and  maintenance  for  themselves  ;  they  stand  in  the 
way  and  spoil  its  effect.  To  be  sure,  there  is  nothing  surpris- 
ing in  this,  for  in  a  world  of  need  and  imperfe6lion  everything 
is  seized  upon  which  can  be  used  to  satisfy  want.  Nothing  is 
exempt  from  this  service,  no,  not  even  those  very  things  whicli 


90  STUDIES   IN    PESSIMISM. 

arise  only  when  need  and  want  are  for  a  moment  lost  sight  of — 
the  beautiful  and  the  true,  sought  for  their  own  sakes. 

This  is  especially  illustrated  and  corroborated  in  the  case  of 
institutions — whether  great  or  small,  wealthy  or  poor,  founded, 
no  matter  in  what  century  or  in  what  land,  to  maintain  and 
advance  human  knowledge,  and  generally  to  afford  help  to 
those  intelledual  efforts  which  enoble  the  race.  Wherever 
these  institutions  may  be,  it  is  not  long  before  people  sneak  up 
to  them  under  the  pretence  of  wishing  to  further  those  special 
ends,  while  they  are  really  led  on  by  the  desire  to  secure  the 
emoluments  which  have  been  left  for  their  furtherance,  and 
thus  to  satisfy  certain  coarse  and  brutal  instin6ls  of  their  own. 
Thus  it  IS  that  we  come  to  have  so  many  charlatans  in  every 
branch  of  knowledge.  The  charlatan  takes  very  different 
shapes  according  to  circumstances  ;  but  at  bottom  he  is  a  man 
who  cares  nothing  about  knowledge  for  its  own  sake,  and  only 
strives  to  gain  the  semblance  of  it  that  he  may  use  it  for  his 
own  personal  ends,  which  are  always  selfish  and  material. 

Every  hero  is  a  Samson.  The  strong  man  succumbs  to  the 
intrigues  of  the  weak  and  the  many  ;  and  if  in  the  end  he 
loses  all  patience  he  crushes  both  them  and  himself  Or  he  is 
like  Gulliver  at  Liliput,  overwhelmed  by  an  enormous  number 
of  little  men. 

A  mother  gave  her  children  ^sop's  fables  to  read,  in  the 
hope  of  educating  and  improving  their  minds  ;  but  they  very 
soon  brought  the  book  back,  and  the  eldest,  wise  beyond  his 
years,  delivered  himself  as  follows:  This  is  no  book  for  us; 
it's  much  too  childish  and  stupid.  You  can't  make  us  believe 
that  foxes  and  wolves  and  ravens  are  able  to  talk  ;  we've  got 
beyond  stories  of  that  kind! 

In  these  young  hopefuls  you  have  the  enlightened  Rational- 
ists of  the  future. 


A  FEW  PARABLES.  9 1 

A  number  of  porcupines  huddled  together  for  warmth  on  a 
cold  day  in  winter  ;  but,  as  they  began  to  prick  one  another 
with  their  quills,  they  were  obliged  to  disperse.  However  the 
cold  drove  them  together  again,  when  just  the  same  thing 
happened.  At  last,  after  many  turns  of  huddhng  and  dis- 
persing, they  discovered  that  they  would  be  best  off  by  remain- 
ing at  a  littie  distance  from  one  another.  In  the  same  way  the 
need  of  society  drives  the  human  porcupines  together,  only  to 
be  mutually  repelled  by  the  many  prickly  and  disagreeable 
qualities  of  their  nature.  The  moderate  distance  which  they  at 
last  discover  to  be  the  only  tolerable  condition  of  intercourse, 
is  the  code  of  politeness  and  fine  manners  ;  and  those  who 
transgress  it  are  roughly  told — in  the  English  phrase — io  keep 
their  distance.  By  this  arrangement  the  mutual  need  of  warmth 
is  only  very  moderately  satisfied  ;  but  then  people  do  not  get 
pricked.  A  man  who  has  some  heat  in  himself  prefers  to 
remain  outside,  where  he  will  neither  prick  other  people  nor 
get  pricked  himself. 


The  Library  of  Liberal  Classics,  ^y.  .  competent  cnt.c 

.v~u-^°'  °^"*^**  ^^**  '^  imperishable  in  literature,  because,  in  common  with 
the  higher  thoughts  attnbuted  to  Confucius,  to  Buddha,  to  Marcus  Aurelius 
iLffowf  %t  *°  Shakespeare,  these  Classics  have  an  intrinsic  excellence  of 
their  own.  They  are  good  for  all  time  and  for  all  civilizations  capable  of  un- 
derstanding them,— they  appeal  to  all  that  is  noblest  and  truest  in  humanity.  " 
"There  fa  no  sleep  so  profound  as  the  sleep  of  a  dead  book  "  says  TA^  Ccn- 

'^tt'^'u  ^^^  °'  sterling  merit  never  die.    They  are  always  in  demand 

and  they  become  known  as  "  Classics"  in  literature. 

»!,  J*"l^''»-  *=°'"PI'f<^  1°  the  Library  of  Liberal  Classics  are  books  of 
this  description  They  have  stood  the  test  of  time,  and  have  not  been  found 
wanting  Years  have  elapsed  since  they  were  written,  and  in  the  coming  centuries 
they  will  still  survive.  ,  Like  truth,  they  are  indeed  immortel  I     They  were  not 

cXiete  withoSh^^^     ^°^  ^"^  ^  '^^'  '"*  ^°'  ^  ^-«'"— ^  -  "''-^  -°  ^ 

ABRAHAM     LINCOLN:     The  True  Story  of    a    Great    Life. 
Illustrated.  By  W.  H.  Herndon  and  Jesse  W.  Weik.   a  vols. Cloth,  $3.00 

A  Few  Days  in  Athens.  By  Frances  Wright.  New  Edition. 
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ASe  01  KeaSOn*  Being  an  investigation  of  True  and  Fabulous  Theol- 
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Apocryphal  New  Testament.  Being  all  the  Gospels,  Epistles, 
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Proceeding  on  lines  parallel  to  those  followed  by  Robert  Taylor  in  his  Astro- 
Theological  Lectures,  the  author  by  the  aid  of  numerous  iilustrations  and  an 
elaborate  planisphere,  traces  most  of  the  myths  which  lie  at  the  base  of 
Christianity  to  their  origin  in  sun  and  star  worship,  or  to  the  natural  phe- 
nomena which  played  so  important  a  part  in  those  systems.  The  astronom- 
ical facts  given  possess  great  value  aside  from  their  relation  to  Christian 
mythology.  The  illustrations  are  rare  and  curious,  and  the  planisphere  (a 
representation  of  the  celestial  sphere  upon  a  plane  with  adjustable  circles) 
will  interest  the  most  careless.  Owing  to  the  construction  of  its  covers,  to 
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heavy  boards.     Price,  $1.00. 

Astro-Theological  Lectures-  AllerortcalMeanlnroftheBlble. 
Belief  not  the  Safe  Side:  The  Resurrection  of  Lazarus ;  The  Unjust  Stew- 
ard ;  The  Devil ;  The  Rich  Man  and  Lazarus  ;  The  Day  of  Temptation  in  th« 
Wilderness  ;  Ahab,  or  the  Lying  Spirit ;  The  Fall  of  Man  ;  Noah  ;  Abraham  • 
Sarah  ;  Melchisedec ;  The  Lord  ;  Moses,  The  Twelve  Patriarchs ;  Who  is  th« 
Lord?    Exodus;  Aaron;  Miriam.    By  Rev.  Robt.  Taylor_ Cloth,  $i.5» 

ACON'S  Christian  Paradoxes,  or  the  character,  of  > 

Believing  Christian  in  Paradoxes  and  Seeming  Contradictions.  WithPor- 
trait.    Preface  by  Peter  Eckler Paper.  locts. 

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Dudley  (Dean.)  History  of  the  Council  of  Nice  (A.D.,  335),  with  Life 
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B 


A  VISIT  TO  CEYLON 


BT 


ERNEST    HAECKEL, 

FVOFBSSOB  IN  THB  UMVKR8ITT  OF  JENA.      AUTHOR  OF  "THE  BISTORT  OF  CRXATIOIT,*' 

'•  HIPTORT  OF  THE  EVOLUTION  OF  MAN,"  ETC. 

1 

WITH   PORTRAIT,   AND  MAP    CF  INDIA    AND   CEYLON. 
One  volume,  post  8to,  348  passes,  extra  vellam  cloth,  $1.00. 


Before  venturing  on  this  memorablrf  vi'yage  to  India  and  Ceylon,  whose  re^iults  have 
delighted  and  entranced  many  readers  ii  twth  hemispheres,  our  enthusiastic  author, 
having  conferred  many  zoological  titles  ii  honor  of  the  august  divinity  that  controls  and 
governs  the  solar  orb,  claimed  in  retui.  special  consideration  and  protection  from  the 
occult  forces  of  that  brilliant  luminary,  a  id  hoping  to  be  favored  with  ]>leasant  and  agree- 
able weather  during  the  entire  voyage,  he  made,  with  all  the  solemnity  that  becomes  a 
scientist,  the  following  propitiatory  invocation  to  Helios,  the  benignant  god  of  the  Sun: 

"  I  beseech  thee,  adored  Sun-god,  that  this,  my  zoological  tribute,  may  find  favor  in 
thine  eyes  !  Guide  me,  safe  and  sound,  to  India,  that  I  may  labor  in  thy  light,  and  rettun 
homt'  in'.der  thy  protection  in  the  ^■pnwg.'^  —  HaeckeC s  Visit  to  Ceylon,  page  20 

"  These  letters  constitute  one  of  the  most  charming  books  of  travel  ever  published,  qolta 
worthy  of  being  placed  by  the  side  of  Darwin's  '  Voyage  of  Ike  Beagle.'  "—Nmlton. 


3^feje  %ihtvKl  OPlassics.  mo.  e.) 


FORCE  AND  MATTER 


OR 


Principles  of  the  Natural  Order  of  the  Universe, 

WITH    A   SYSTEM   OF    MORALITV    BASED   THEREON. 


Prof.   LUDWIG  BUCHNER,   M.  D. 


It  •cientific  and  rationalistic  work  of  gjeat  merit  and  ability.    Translated  from  the  xsth 

German  Edition,  revised  and  enlarged  by  the  author,  and  reprinted  from 

the  fourth  English  edition. 

One  volume,  post  8vo,  414  pages,  witli  portrait,  vellum  cloth,  %\.         half  calf,  Ij.oo. 


Force  and  Matter, 
Immortality  of  Matter, 
Immortality  of  Force. 
Infinity  of  Matter, 
Value  of  Matter, 
Motion,  Form. 

Immutability  of  Natural 

Laws, 
Universality  of  Natnral 

Laws. 


C02T'rE3iT'rS  : 

The  Heavens, 
Periods  of  the  Creation 

the  Earth, 
Original  Generation, 
Secular  Generation, 
The  Fitness  of  Things  in 

Nature,  (Teleology), 
Man, 

Brain  and  Mind, 
Thought, 


Consciousness, 

Seat  of  the  Soul, 

Innate  Ideas, 

The  Idea  of  God, 

Personal  Continuance, 

Vital  Force, 

The  Soul  of  Brutes, 

Free  Will, 

Morality, 

Concluding  Observations. 


Sbjc  l^ibfcral  Classics,  (»».  i.) 


History  of  Christianity 

Soaprteiag  all  that  relates  to  the  Christian  religion  in  "  The  History  ^f  tlu  DttUtu 
and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,"  and,  also, 

-wA  Vindication*- 

^never  baforr  publiihwl  in  Ibis  country,) 

of  "  SoMB  Pamagks  in  thk  Fifteenth  and  Sixteenth  Chapters."  by 

EDWARD  GIBBON,  Esq. 

With  a  Preface,  Life  of  the  Author,  and  Notes  by  Peter  Eckler;  also,  Varioruat 
Notes  by  GuizoT,  Wknck,  Milman,  "  an  English  Churchman,"  and 

other  scholars. 

Om  t«L,  PMt  8to,  8«4  pa^i,  witfe  Portrait  of  Gibbon  and  numaroas  KagraTinKt  of 
mrtholoflcal  dirinities.     Ex.  Teilnm  cloth,  $2.00;  half  calf,  $4.00. 


"  This  important  work  contains  Oibbon's  oomplete  Theological  writings,  separate  ttam  his 
historical  and  misoellaneous  works,  showing  when,  where,  and  how  Christianity  oriicinated  ; 
mho  were  its  fonnders ;  and  what  were  the  sentiments,  character,  manners,  numbers  and  con- 
dition of  the  primitlTe  Christians.  What  has  been  said  by  Christians  in  regard  U>  the  Origin 
of  OhritHamitii  is  reprinted  from  the  valuable  notes  of  Dean  Milman,  Wenck,  Ooisot,  and  other 
eminent  Christian  historians  who  have  edited  Oibbon's  works :  and  the  ploos  but  scholarly 
remarks  of  the  learned  editor  of  Bohn's  edition  of  CUbbon  are  also  given  in  ftill.  Among  the 
Bamerona  lUostrations  will  be  found  representations  of  the  principal  divinities  of  the  Pagan 
Mythology.  The  sketch  of  the  author's  life  adds  value  and  interest  to  the  book,  which  is  not 
«n>v  irell  edited  and  printed,  but  subntantially  bound.  It  will  ba  a  treaaora  for  all  libraries." 
—  ifh*  Mofftmine  of  Arryiriran  HiKtryni 


'ght  %ihnid  ©lassks,  (So.  6.) 


A  NEW  EDITION,  JUST  PUBLISHED,   OF 


VoLNEY's  Ruins 


THE  LAW  OF  NATURE, 

TO    WHICH   IS   ADDED 

rOLNEY'S    ANSWER    TO    DR.    PRIESTLY,    A    BIOGRAPHICAL    NOTICE 

BY    COUNT    DARU,    AND    THE    ZODIACAL    SIGNS    AND 

CONSTELLATIONS    BY    THE    EDITOR  ; 

^Iso,  a  Map  of  the  Astrological  Heaven  of  the  Ancients. 


Mnted  on  heavy  paper,  from  new  plates,  in  large  clear  type,  with  portrait  and  illvs. 
timtions.    One  vol.,  post  8vo,  248  pages ;  Paper,  soc. ;  cloth,  75c. :  half-calf,  Sj.oo. 

Thia  iB  ondonbtedly  on*^  of  the  best  and  most  oseAiI  books  ever  published.  It  eloqaeatly 
adTOoatea  the  beat  interests  of  mankind,  and  clearly  points  out  the  sources  of  human  ignor- 
ance and  misery.  The  author  is  supposed  to  meet  in  the  ruins  of  Palmyra  an  apparition  or 
phantom,  which  explains  the  true  principles  of  society,  and  the  causes  of  both  the  proa- 
perity  and  the  ruin  of  ancient  states.  A  general  assembly  of  the  nations  is  at  length 
oonvened,  a  legislative  body  formed,  the  source  and  origin  of  religion,  of  government, 
and  of  laws  discussed,  and  the  Law  of  Nature— founded  on  justice  and  equity  —  is  finally 
proclaimed  to  an  expectant  world. 

**  YoLNBT's  Auifu  will  be  read  with  aa  much  interest  to-day  as  it  was  a  hnndrsd  yaan  ac*. 
It  la  a  book  that  was  bom  to  immortality  and  a  hnadied  yean  to  eoma  It  will  b*  aa  I 
tt  to  to^ay"— SsNffio-PMfoMipMeai  JomimI. 


JvLst   r'Tjilollslieca..   TliO 

LIFE  OF  JESUS. 

By  ERNEST  RENAN. 

400  pages.     Bcantlftilly  Illnstrsted.     Cloth,  76  cti.;  paper,  60  Mate. 

WISDOM  OF  LIFE 

By  ARTHUR  SCHOPENHAUER. 


TVith  portrait  of  Schopenhauer. 


Paper,  25  o*ntfl». 


NOTICES   OF   THE  PRESS. 

**  Schopenhauer  is  not  simply  a  moralist  writing  in  his  study  and  applylni* 
abstract  principles  to  the  conduct  of  thought  and  action,  but  is  also  in  a  large 
measure  a  man  or  the  world,  with  a  firm  grasp  of  the  actual,  and  is  therefore 
able  to  speak  in  a  way  which,  to  use  Bacon's  phrase,  comes  home  to  men's 
business  and  bosoms.  The  essentially  practical  character  of  his  Wisdom  of 
Idfe  is  evidenced  by  his  frequent  recourse  to  illustrations,  and  his  singularly 
apt  use  of  them.  .  Mr.  Bailey  Saunders'  introductory  essay  adds  much  to  the 
value  and  interest  of  a  singularly  suggestive  voX-axa^.— Manchester  Examiner. 
"The  new  lights  which  Mr.  Saunders'  translations  give  us  into  the  character 
of  the  great  pessimist  are  of  considsrahle  value.  The  Wisdom  of  Life  is  well 
worth  reading  and  Mr.  Saunders  has  doae  his  work  well." — Glasgow  Herald. 

Ignorant  Philosopher. 

■FTom  ttve  "FreucTa.  ol    M.  de  Yoltaire, 
Portraits  of  Descartes  and  Spinoza.  Paper,  25  cts. 

VOLTAIRE'S         ~ 
LEHERS  ON  THE  CHRISTIAN  RELIGION, 

With  comments  on  the  writiners  of  the  most  eminent  authors  who  have  beca 
accused  of  attacking  Christianity.    Many  portaits.    Paper,  35  cents. 

THE 

Philosophy  of  History. 

By  Toltair«.    (With  superb  portrait  of  the  EmpreM  Catherine.) 

This  admirable  work  is  "  humbly  dedicated  by  the  author  to  the  most  high 
and  puissant  Princess,  Cathekine  the  Second,  Empress  of  all  the  Rnssiaa, 
protrectress  of  the  arts  and  sciences ;  dy  her  genius  entitled  to  judge  ofancitnt 
nmtioHS.  as  she  is  by  her  merit  worthy  to  govern  her  own."    Paper,  ascta> 


The  Wilderness  of  Worlds 

A  Secular  and  up-to-date   Scientific  Work  / 

FOR  over  two-score  years,  Mr.  G.  W.  Morehouse,  the  well- 
known  author,  scientist,  and  astronomer,  has  been  active- 
ly engaged  in  gathering  the  materials  for  his  grand  work  called 
The    Wilderness  of  Worlds. 

This  book  is  a  popular  treatise  on  the  "  Evolution  of  Matter 
from  Nebula  to  Man,  and  the  Life-Orbit  of  a  Star." 

The  facts  given  by  Mr.  Morehouse  are  based  on  the  latest  dis- 
coveries of  modern  research ;  the  authorities  quoted  include  the 
most  advanced  thinkers  and  specialists  in  the  various  branches 
of  scientific  enquiry  ;  the  arguments  used  are  as  plain  and  clear 
as  they  are  concise  and  convincing,  and  the  entire  volume  is  as 
interesting  as  it  is  instructive — as  eloquent  as, it  is  profound. 

Indeed,  The  Wilderness  of  Worlds,  is  so  plain,  so  earnest,  so 
impartial,  and  so  reasonable,  that,  to  quote  a  popular  scriptural 
text,  even  "The  wayfaring  man,  though  [not  necessarily]  a 
fool,  need  not  err  therein."     In  his  preface,  the  author  says  : 

"  I  have  in  my  mind  a  wilderness  of  trees.  Those  near  me  are  of 
gigantic  size  ;  in  the  distance  they  seem  smaller  and  smaller,  fading 
gradually  until  the  utmost  limit  of  vision  is  reached.  Not  a  single 
clearing  is  to  be  seen.  The  ground  is  covered  with  seeds,  many  of 
which  are  beginning  to  vegetate.  There  are  innumerable  seedlings 
and  young  trees,  and  mature  trees  ;  all  stages,  the  living,  the  dying, 
the  dead,  and  the  prostrate,  mouldering  trunks — a  fair,  a  wonderful, 
but  natural  scene. 

"  I  raise  my  eyes  and  look  outward  into  space.  I  see  the  wilderness 
of  worlds.  The  one  on  which  I  stand  seems  of  immense  size.  The 
innumerable  multitude  beyond  fade  in  the  distance.  I  run  to  the 
telescope ;  my  vision  is  extended  a  thousand-fold ;  millions  more 
come  into  view,  and  in  the  thousand  times  more  distant  circle  of 
vision  fade  gradually  until  in  the  outer  limits  only  glimpses  can  be 
caught  of  faint  points  of  light.  The  worlds,  too,  are  of  all  ages  like 
the  trees,  and  the  great  deep  of  space  is  strewn  with  their  dust,  and  is 
pulsating  with  the  potency  of  new  births. 

"How  grand,  complete  and  sublime  are  the  works  and  workings 
of  Nature.  We  stand  with  bowed  heads,  entranced  and  speechless 
in  the  presence  of  the  Universe.  Held  in  its  all-embracing  arms,  we 
are  of  It, — one  and  inseparable." 

The  Wilderness  of  Worlds  is  printed  from  large  clear  type,  on 
fine  paper,  and  is  substantially  bound,  (uniform  with  the  Library 
of  Liberal  Classics,)  in  brown,  silk-ribbed  cloth,  with  gilt  top  and 
specially  designed  side-stamp.  The  engraved  illustrations  add 
interest  and  value  to  the  text ;  and,  to  insure  a  large  sale,  the  price 
has  been  placed  at  $i.oo  per  copy. 

PETER  ECKLER,  Publisher,  35  Fulton  St.,  N.  Y. 


%he  %xyxetnl  Classics^  (9«.  2.) 


Voltaire's  Romances. 

A  New  Edition^  Profusely  Illustrated. 


"  I  choose  that  a  story  should  be  founded  on  probability,  and  not  always  resemble  a 
dream.  I  desire  to  find  nothing  in  it  trivial  or  extravagant ;  and  I  desire  above  all. 
that  under  the  appearance  of  fable,  there  may  appear  some  latent  truth,  obvious  to 
the  discerning  eye,  though  it  escape  the  observation  of  the  vulgar. "  —  V»Uair: 


OONTENTS. 


Thk  White  Bull;  a  Satirica'  Romance. 
Zadig  ;  OR  Fatb.    An  Orientat  History. 
Thk  Sack  and  Thk  Athkist. 
Thk  Princkss  of  Babylon. 
Thk  Man  ok  Forty  Crowns. 
Thk  Huron;  or  Pupil  of  NATtntK. 
MiCROMKCAs.    A  satire  on  mankind. 
The  World  as  it  Goks. 
Thk  Black  and  Thk  Whitk. 
Mkmnon  the  Philosopher. 
Andre  Drs  Touches  at  Siam. 


Bababec. 

Thk  Study  of  Nature. 

A  Conversation  with  a  Cmij 

Plato's  Dream. 

A  Pleasure  in  Having  no  Plbasvr*. 

An  Adventure  in  India. 

Jeannot  and  Colin. 

Travels  of  Scarmsntado. 

The  Good  Bramin. 

The  Two  Comfortbrs. 

Ancient  Faith  and  Fable. 


Ob*  t*L,  |Mst  8to,  480  imi^s,  wltk  Portrait  and  88  IHastratloiM.     P»pMr,  $1.M| 
Extra  TellHB  cloth,  $1.60 ;  half  calf,  $4.00. 


Voltaire's  satire  was  as  keen  and  fine  pointed  as  a  TwpXix.—MagaMint  of  Am.  Hiit^if 
K  dcligfatfal  reproduction,  unique  and  refrenhing.  —  Bttion  C»mtm»nwfUk. 


EN[ 


TITL 


